


Angel, Please

by basilthepope



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale has ptsd somethin terrible, Classical Musicians AU, Human AU, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, University AU, but they’re professors not students, catholic!aziraphale, probable eventual smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2020-07-09 08:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19884964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basilthepope/pseuds/basilthepope
Summary: It has been nearly twenty years since Crowley and Aziraphale last saw each other. When Crowley begins teaching at the same university as Aziraphale, unpleasant memories resurface and enmity ensues, but maybe, just maybe, things will turn out alright.





	1. This Shake in My Legs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title taken from the song Angel, Please by Ra Ra Riot!! 10/10 would recommend listening to that. It won’t add like another layer of understanding or anything, it’s just a good song.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Mr Loverman by Ricky Montgomery! Beautiful song, also 100% worth listening to.
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Thanks also to my lovely beta for helping with the plot and walking my dumb American ass through how universities work in the UK, and my poor, sweet husband who has listened to me talk about nothing but this fic for the last two weeks.

As the start of the fall semester draws nearer, Dr. Aziraphale Church finds himself growing more and more irritable. This downswing in his mood began near the end of the previous semester, when it was announced that one Mr. Anthony J. Crowley would be taking a position as a violin instructor at St. Basil University, following the retirement of Dr. Agnes Nutter from her 40-year tenure in that position. His mood would improve somewhat over the course of July and August as he enjoyed his summer break, but as September 26 looms ever closer, he finds himself, once again, to be quite disagreeable most of the time. 

All of this comes to a head on September 19, as Aziraphale is sitting in his office making some final preparations for the first week of classes. He has never been one to procrastinate (at least on most things), so even a full week before classes begin, he has very little work left to do. His lesson plans are ready, his syllabus is updated and ready to print, and he has just received his rosters for the fall semester. He skims through them, wondering if the students really look younger every year, or if he is just getting older. Perhaps it’s both, he reasons.

Aziraphale closes his laptop with a sigh. He has reached a stopping point, and has found that his motivation to continue is unusually low. This, of course, is because of his chronic bad mood in recent weeks, but he chalks it up to hunger. He resolves to treat himself to sushi, referring to it as treating himself as if he does not do this at least once a week. He stands and stretches his arms, before gathering his belongings and leaving his office, flipping the lights off as he closes the door.

When Aziraphale turns around, his eyes glance across the shiny new name plaque beside the office door just across from his. 

_Anthony J. Crowley._

He stops. He hasn’t seen that name in a long time, and his breath catches in his throat. He has known that Anthony would be joining the faculty of St. Basil University for some months, but that knowledge has apparently not made him any more prepared to actually see the man’s name by an office door, and especially not the office door directly across from his own. His heart rate surges and he feels a panic attack creeping up on him. His vision blurs at the edges and he bends over, hands on his knees, feeling lightheaded. It’s been a long time since anything like this has happened to him, and he will later be furious and embarrassed that it happened in public. Right now, however, he needs to focus on not blacking out. He reminds himself that he has been aware of Anthony’s impending arrival for quite a while, and that it is purely a coincidence that their offices are right across the hall from one another. It is not, he tells himself, some sick cosmic joke, of which he is the unfortunate punch line. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on slowing his breathing.

Once Aziraphale is able to stand up straight, he takes a deep breath and prepares to continue on his way. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a figure moving about the office, but he does not turn his head. He, very deliberately, does not look, because he knows that if he looks, he will launch himself into another delightfully unnecessary panic attack.

It isn’t necessarily that Aziraphale has a problem with Anthony himself. He has more of a problem with his _history_ with the man. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now. He really, really doesn’t want to think about that. His palms are sweating, his heart is pounding in his throat, and he walks away as quickly as he can, forgetting entirely about his resolution to get sushi.

——

Early in the morning on September 19, Anthony J. Crowley wakes with a start. He hasn’t fully adjusted to his new apartment yet, and has been having trouble sleeping. He knows it’s partly his nerves, in addition to his new home, and that irks him. He has performed with top-tier orchestras across the world, in front of all manner of royalty, political giants, and the like, and _now_ he’s nervous?

In truth, he is anxious that he won’t be a good teacher. Despite all his success as a soloist, he is still plagued by a nasty case of imposter’s syndrome. He is afraid that he will end up looking like a fool in front of other professionals, who have been in the field much longer than he has, and who have several more degrees than he does.

Crowley glances at his alarm clock. 6:54 in the morning. He groans and rolls over, resolving to continue trying to sleep. He has moderate success, but wakes again just after 8:15. Accepting that he won’t be sleeping any more, Crowley rolls out of his bed. His apartment is freezing, but he hasn’t yet figured out how to work the thermostat, so he grimaces and deals with it. This, frankly, is a testament to his stubbornness, as his staunch refusal to ask anyone for help with the thing has resulted in his home being absolutely, buttcheek-clenchingly freezing ever since he arrived. Naturally, Crowley is extremely embarrassed by this, and would be hard-pressed to admit it out loud.

But never mind that. Crowley has a lot to do today, as he’ll be moving into his new office at the university later. He wonders vaguely if it would be too early for him to just go over there now, but decides against it. Instead, he starts himself some coffee and gazes blearily into his near-empty refrigerator. Sighing, he settles on an apple, and takes a seat at his table, clutching his coffee for warmth.

After a moment spent staring blankly into his coffee, still half-asleep, Crowley pulls out his phone to check his email. His old professional email is full of unread spam mail and things he meant to follow up on, but never did, but his new St. Basil email has only a few messages in it so far. One is a roster of his students, which he has already seen, and the other is some banal announcement about renovations in the music building. Crowley taps on the unopened email, so that at least the notification will go away, and his eye catches on a name in the long list of people who also received it.

_Church, Aziraphale._

Crowley’s brow furrows. Did Aziraphale teach at— how had he not noticed— he had even been there to visit—

Frantically, Crowley switches to the internet browser on his phone and pulls up the St. Basil University website, wrinkling his nose impatiently at how slowly it loads. He navigates his way to the school of music faculty page, scrolling through departments until he finds what he’s looking for. Crowley is soon faced with a slightly blurry headshot of Aziraphale in front of a bookcase. He is smiling gently, dressed in a light blue shirt, an off-white blazer, and an immaculately tied bow tie, and he’s still wearing the same dopey reading glasses he wore back when they were undergrads.

As he looks at Aziraphale’s photo, Crowley is flooded with a lot of confusing emotions all at once. He generally prefers not to bother with emotions, as he finds them messy and frustrating. But they are, regrettably, unavoidable, and he is sometimes faced with them. That doesn’t mean he knows what to do about them when they happen, however. Aziraphale at least _looks_ happy. Or, at least, he’s smiling. That counts for something, right? Crowley supposes he should be glad for him. More than anything, Crowley is struck by how much older Aziraphale looks than when they last saw each other. Of course, it’s only logical that he would look older. It’s been almost two decades, after all.

Crowley sighs once more. He did not expect to be confronted with this particular ghost from his past when he woke up this morning, and it has done nothing good for his nerves. Neither has the coffee, frankly.

Nevertheless, Crowley has already accepted the position at St. Basil, and had he known that Aziraphale taught at the same university, he still would have taken the position. Probably. He decides not to think too hard about it, and finishes his coffee in one final gulp, before standing and stretching. He decides he feels better about being awake, now that he’s had his coffee, and he goes to take a shower.

Even though he plays music while he showers, Crowley can’t stop his mind from wandering back to Aziraphale. He wonders what will happen when they see each other, because surely they’ll run into each other at some point. Right? It’s not _that_ big of a school. Maybe their offices will be on opposite ends of the building. Or different floors, even. They are, after all, in very different departments.

He knows he should stop dwelling on this so heavily, but he can’t help himself. He could never bring himself to truly be angry at Aziraphale for what happened. It wasn’t his fault, but that doesn’t mean Crowley hadn’t been angry at the time. Now, after so many years, his anger had long since ebbed away into bitterness, and even that had eventually been replaced with apathy. But that was when he thought he’d never see Aziraphale again.

Crowley’s thoughts follow him out of the shower, into his car, and all the way to the university. He parks in a space reserved for faculty, remembering that he can do that now, and then remembers how annoyed he is at having to put a garrish parking sticker on his beautiful Bentley. Even if he peels the sticker off, he knows the gross adhesive residue left behind will never completely go away.

Balancing a box of sheet music against his hip, Crowley beeps himself into the building with his brand new faculty ID card. All he knows is that his office is room number 219, and he spends a few minutes wandering around before he finds the stairs. From there, finding and getting into his office is relatively straightforward, until he realizes he doesn’t yet have a key. Swearing under his breath, he drops the box of music down in front of his office door, and runs back down the stairs and into the front office.

The woman at the desk hands him his key, and he returns to his office and unlocks the door. He is met with a relatively large, off-white studio containing only an upright Yamaha piano, an empty bookshelf, and a desk. A full-length mirror hangs on one wall. Crowley takes a moment to take it all in, and then sets about arranging his office. It takes him several more trips to and from his car, but before long, he has lugged every box of sheet music, his violin, violin stand, several potted plants, and a box of violin technique books up the stairs.

Internally bemoaning that his sense of style does not include clothing that is suitable for the summer, Crowley puts down the last box and sets about moving into his office—arranging and rearranging the various fixtures in his office, placing his plants in various places to see how they look, and packing the bookshelf with his sheet music and technique books. He loses track of time as he works, and before he knows it, it’s past noon, and he desperately has to pee. As he walks out of his office to look for a bathroom, he notices the office across the hall from his. The light is on inside, and he sees a familiar tuft of silver-white hair bent over a laptop. Crowley pauses, forgetting for a moment that he’s looking for a bathroom. Of _course_ their offices are right across from each other. Figures. Crowley approaches the door, fully intending to knock, but after a split second, he realizes he has no idea what he would say. His hand is raised and ready, but he has nothing left to give after so many years of silence. And is seeing the look on Aziraphale’s face when he sees Crowley at his door _really_ worth the aftermath it will inevitably cause? Crowley grimaces and turns away, remembering that he has to pee.

——

Aziraphale walks back to his apartment. He always walks to and from campus, since he lives so close, but today he walks much faster than usual. He fumbles with his keys as he lets himself into the building, and practically runs up the two flights to his front door. As he huffs and puffs his way up the stairs, he is vaguely thankful that there is only one apartment above this bookshop, and therefore no risk of anyone seeing his version of running.

He closes and locks the door behind him, flinging his briefcase haphazardly onto his couch. He stands just inside the door for a moment, hands clenched and knuckles white. He realizes he isn’t breathing and takes a ragged breath. He runs his hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful and sinking into his couch with his head in his hands.

 _Why_ , Aziraphale thinks. _Why the ever-loving fuck—Father forgive me—did this have to happen?_ It’s bad enough that he has to deal with Anthony teaching in the same building as him, but to come face-to-face with the inevitability of running into him, of seeing him _every single day_ until one of them dies or leaves the university—

Aziraphale stops himself there. His therapist would tell him to stop there. He can feel himself beginning to get worked up, and he knows from experience that this is a slippery slope that doesn’t lead anywhere good. He stands and focuses his energy, instead, on meticulously cleaning and organizing at least one aspect of his apartment. He is naturally a very organized person, though one wouldn't be able to tell that from looking at any space he inhabits for an extended period of time. But there is a method to his madness, and there is an underlying air of extreme meticulousness that pervades his living space. This is primarily because he takes out his anxiety on the dust on his books, the buildup of grease on his stovetop, and other such things, but at the same time can never seem to remember where he last put down his keys. He maintains a peculiar balance between cleanliness and chaos, and while he knows on some level that it’s not ideal, it works for him.

Today, the victim of his frantic anxiety-induced cleaning spree is his refrigerator. He pulls everything out, checks and double-checks the expiration dates, and tosses anything that’s gone bad. When he has finished that, he methodically moves things from shelf to shelf, so that he can take each fixture out and scrub it down, making sure to clean both sides of each shelf and paying special attention to the corners of the drawers. An hour later, he closes the fridge and looks anxiously around his apartment. There is so much left that he _could_ clean, but now that he has let out some of his tornado energy, he finds that the prospect of actually deep cleaning the rest of his apartment is too great a task for right now. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale feels a pang of hunger shoot through his stomach. Right. Food. He was supposed to get some of that. Sushi. He was supposed to get sushi. Well, he wasn’t necessarily supposed to, but he was going to.

Aziraphale grabs the first book he sees lying around (he soon finds that it’s _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , a favorite of his), and walks out of his apartment. Like most of his regular haunts, the sushi restaurant he frequents is within walking distance of his apartment. This is, in no small part, because Aziraphale strongly dislikes driving. He learned when he was of the usual age one learns to drive, but in his adult life, he avoids it whenever possible. He enjoys a good leisurely walk whenever he can get one in, anyway. This particular walk is a very familiar one for him, and it is rather short—just under a mile.

The servers and kitchen staff at the sushi restaurant have become more familiar with Aziraphale’s menu preferences than they have any repeat customer in the past. Over the years, they have come to be able to surmise Aziraphale’s mood with relative accuracy, based almost exclusively on what he orders. To be fair, the man also tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, but they have noticed a definite correlation between his mood and his roll choices.

Today, upon seeing Aziraphale’s selections, the staff looks at each other with a hint of worry in their eyes. They prefer not to pry into the private lives of their patrons, however, so they say nothing to Aziraphale himself, but they whisper uneasily just out of his earshot.

Aziraphale takes his sweet time eating, as he usually does, and tips well. (This is the main reason the waitstaff likes him so much.) He lets himself be drawn fully into his book, forgetting about the stresses of his day so far. When he emerges from his reverie, he finds that he is much calmer. He comes to the realization that part of the reason for the severity of his reaction to seeing Anthony’s name was his hunger, and subsequently feels a bit silly. But never mind that. He’s full now, and much more capable of considering his current situation without panicking. He bids a friendly farewell to the waitstaff and takes his leave, ready to enjoy a pleasant evening walk before returning home.

As he winds his way through the city, Aziraphale allows his thoughts to return to the situation with Anthony. Perhaps there is something that can be done about it. People switch offices all the time—maybe one of them could move. It should be Anthony, of course, as he is new to the school, and Aziraphale is a senior lecturer. He has been teaching there for—how long has it been now? Twelve years? Something like that. Aziraphale’s brow furrows slightly. Yes, twelve years. There’s no reason he should be made to move instead of Anthony. Though, if it comes to it, he supposes he wouldn’t terribly mind moving if it means being further away from the man, and by extension further away from the painful memories he has tried so hard to forget.

Good God, why did this have to happen now? Aziraphale finds himself growing heated again, and does his best to keep his head level, while still allowing himself to process his feelings on the matter. His therapist would be proud. As he continues to consider the situation, he finds that he is more and more able to think about it while maintaining his composure. He is pleased with this, but nevertheless, he does not look forward to his inevitable first encounter with the man.

Drawing himself back to the present, Aziraphale looks around. The sun is beginning its descent into early evening, and he decides to make his way home. He spends a portion of his evening at the piano, and later returns to _Dorian Gray_ , when his fingers start cramping. As he goes to bed that night, he resolves to have a word with the director of the school in the morning, to see if something can’t be done about the office situation.

——

Crowley returns to his office from the bathroom and spends some quality time with his violin, learning the acoustics of the room. They aren’t ideal, but it’s nothing he can’t work with. Plus, what did he really expect from a 10 by 15 room with cinderblock walls? With the right fixtures, he is sure he can adjust the acoustics to something that will be suitable for his own practice and lessons with his students. As he plays, he loses track of time. He is prone to doing this, and the peace it brings him to be alone with his violin does a lot to soothe the anxiety that has been plaguing him, at least for a little while.

When Crowley finally leaves campus, the afternoon is giving way to early evening. As he passes Aziraphale’s office again, he briefly reconsiders popping in, but sees that the light is off inside. He finds that he is a bit disappointed, but mostly relieved, that his choice in the matter has been revoked. Better to leave that can of worms for a later date.

——

The next day, Aziraphale rises around 8. He putters about his apartment for a while, enjoying a leisurely breakfast and some tea. Just after 10, he sets off toward campus to speak to Gabriel Norman. Gabriel is the director of the school of music, and although Aziraphale knows in his heart that it’s unlikely Gabriel will change the office assignments, he holds out hope anyway.

When Aziraphale arrives at Gabriel’s office door, he finds it standing open. Gabriel is sitting at his desk, frowning at his computer as he taps at the keyboard. Aziraphale knocks lightly on the doorframe to announce his presence, and Gabriel looks up. A smile spreads across his face.

“Aziraphale! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Gabriel stands and leans over his desk to shake Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale nods and smiles politely. “There is actually a matter I wanted to take up with you,” he replies, trying not to let his nerves creep into his voice.

“What’s that?” asks Gabriel.

“It has to do with the, er, placement of Anthony Crowley’s office.” Aziraphale pauses for a beat, steeling himself to make his request. “He’s been put right across the hall from me, but is there any way he could be mov—”

“What, you two have some sort of past?” Gabriel laughs, cutting Aziraphale off mid-sentence. Aziraphale is quite used to this habit of Gabriel’s, but it annoys him nonetheless.

“I would prefer not to talk about it,” replies Aziraphale, frowning. “I just want to know if he can be moved.” He hears an iciness underlying his otherwise pleasant tone, so he forces a smile, hoping to counterbalance it.

“Aziraphale, you’ve been here long enough to know that’s not going to happen,” says Gabriel with a patronizing smile. “You’re not the first person to have a problem with someone whose office is nearby. If I let everyone who had a spat with a coworker switch offices at will, it would be absolute chaos.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. “Forgive my presumptuousness.” He quickly excuses himself from Gabriel’s office, managing to keep his pace measured until he is out of Gabriel’s line of sight, but when he knows Gabriel can no longer see him, his pace increases out of sheer frustration. His feet carry him back to his apartment out of sheer force of habit, but when he reaches his door, he realizes that he does not want to sit at home and marinate in his anger, so he turns around and walks away.

 _A spat_ , Aziraphale thinks, furious. _It was certainly more than a spat—_ He shakes his head, preferring not to remember too many of the details. It wasn’t like it had been Anthony’s fault, anyway, but he doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he focuses on watching his feet as they lead him, step by step, toward his church. Besides his office and his home, this is the place he feels the safest, and he often finds himself drawn here when he is troubled. There’s something comforting about the intimidating stone facade; he knows it well, and it no longer inspires fear, but even after years of attending, he is still struck by its beauty sometimes.

As it is the middle of a workday, the church is deserted. The clergy is busy elsewhere, confession doesn’t open until three, and Aziraphale is the only layperson here to pray at the moment. He quickly genuflects and crosses himself, then takes a seat at a pew, his head already bowed in prayer. He pulls out his rosary, just to have something to occupy his fingers. He does not actually pray the rosary today, but it’s nice to have something to fiddle with.

Sometimes, Aziraphale prays calmly and introspectively, going before God with a peaceful heart. Other times, his prayers are frantic and disjointed, functioning as much as a time for him to process his thoughts as they are a communication with God. Today, they are the latter. Anger clouds his mind, interrupting his attempts at meditation with flashes of heat. In his conscious mind, Aziraphale knows better than to be mad at God for everything that’s happening, but in this moment, he can’t think of anyone else to blame. It’s nobody’s fault, and the lack of a simple, black-and-white understanding of his situation makes it a bit difficult for him to reach a place of relative peace like he had found yesterday, when he could still cling to the slim possibility of Anthony moving offices.

Despite all his panicking, Aziraphale knows that his reaction is temporary, and that he will ultimately adjust to being around Anthony again. He _knows_ it, but that doesn’t make it any easier right now. He also knows full well that if he would only calm down he’d be just fine—

Finally, with strength like only God can give, Aziraphale pushes everything from his mind, and exists for a moment in complete stillness. He takes a mental step back from his situation and does his best to look at it from an outside perspective.

What does he know?

He knows that he has not seen Anthony J. Crowley in nearly twenty years.

He knows that he doesn’t want to see Anthony, if he can help it.

He also knows that he will have to see Anthony, and he can’t help it.

He _doesn’t_ know what will happen to him when he sees the man. Hopefully nothing extreme—

Aziraphale takes a deep breath.

He knows that he can, and will, adapt, and he knows this is not the worst thing he has had to endure.

One by one, Aziraphale allows his thoughts to return, in an orderly fashion. Reorganized by God, if you will.

 _Christ_ , he thinks, _what on earth am I going to do?_ Tears sting at his eyes, and he squeezes them shut to avoid crying. Not here, not now.

A familiar calmness descends over him, and he sighs once more, comforted by the presence of the Almighty. Out of the calmness comes the unquestionable knowledge that he will continue doing as he always does: teaching his classes and playing the piano. Reluctantly, he accepts the Almighty’s assertion that though not all things may be good, good things can come from any situation, given enough faith, patience, and work.

After a few more moments of peaceful consideration, Aziraphale stands, feeling much better. He does not have much work left to do in getting ready for the start of classes, so he takes the rest of the day off, and spends it at home, reading and enjoying the quiet.

——

The days leading up to the start of class pass quickly. Crowley spends much of his time finishing up moving into his apartment and poking around the area in which he lives. Around 5 p.m. on the evening before classes, he comes to the sudden realization that he knows next to nothing about the building in which he will be teaching, so he drives over to campus and sets about exploring the music building. Students have arrived on campus by now, and several are already occupying practice rooms. Most of the faculty has left for the evening, but there are a few procrastinators still in their offices working.

Crowley wanders the first floor, finding mostly classrooms and ensemble rehearsal rooms. He knows he will spend relatively little time on this floor, but he feels the need to know the layout nonetheless. He is more familiar with the second floor, but he still walks the halls and discreetly peeks into practice rooms and offices as he passes, out of sheer curiosity.

As Crowley rounds the corner toward his own office, he sees that telltale flyaway hair once more, except this time it’s just above the shocked face of Dr. Aziraphale Church, who Crowley has been pointedly avoiding confronting for almost a week now. Little does he know that Aziraphale has also been avoiding this exact situation. In short, neither of them is happy to see the other, but there’s nothing either of them can do about it now.

Supposing that they can’t just stand there and stare at each other in stunned horror forever, Crowley begins a conversation, of sorts.

“Aziraphale.”

“Anthony.”

“Uh— actually these days I’m really just going by Crowley. No one’s called me Anthony since—” Crowley cuts himself off mid-sentence. No one has called him Anthony since college. Since Aziraphale.

“Ah, my bad,” replies Aziraphale.

There is an awkward silence.

“So… how has your— how have you been?” Crowley stammers. He has never been much of a conversationalist.

“I’ve been quite well, thank you,” says Aziraphale curtly. Before Crowley can get anything else out, he continues, “But I don’t want you to labor under the delusion that we’re going to be anything more than colleagues.”

“Of course not.” Crowley feels a spike of iciness in his voice that had not previously been there. How foolish of him to think that anything had changed. What did he expect? And really, if something _had_ changed, he isn’t sure he would want to be close to Aziraphale again anyway. Not after what happened last time. 

“Our offices are near each other, but that is all. Have a good first day,” says Aziraphale. He nods politely, and then purses his lips and walks away.

Crowley feels anger bubble up in his chest. God _damn_ all these emotions lately—

How _dare_ he! Crowley clenches his fists and grinds his teeth, trying to stop himself from overreacting. He knows better than this. He knows what happened. He is alarmed—and frankly insulted—that Aziraphale apparently hasn’t managed to work through it at all in the last two decades, but in the end, it was never Aziraphale’s fault, and Crowley knows that. 

He takes a deep breath. He decides he needs his violin and some whisky, so he turns on his heel and walks quickly toward a different exit than Aziraphale had. Ultimately, he opts only for the whisky, and leaves his violin for another time.

He does not sleep well that night, but neither does Aziraphale, and neither of them is in particularly good spirits when they awake the next morning to get ready for the first day of classes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh hey folks thank you for reading lmao i’m like unreasonably nervous to post this bc it’s my first time ever posting a fic here so I hope you like it-


	2. Take a Deep Breath and Hold It In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Hold It In by Jukebox the Ghost, which is my very favorite band ever.
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, the one and only Dio, who I will link to when their account is fully set up, and continued thanks to my husband for their endless patience.
> 
> The pieces referenced in this chapter are:  
> Bartok's 2nd violin concerto - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbAaM9tIYhs&t=1293s  
> Sibelius's violin concerto - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gwjkFoBX4Y

As September 26 advances toward late morning, Adam Young’s eyes snap open. His alarm clock has just begun going off, but his nerves kept him from sleeping very deeply last night, so he wakes quickly. He turns off his alarms so his flatmates aren’t disturbed by it through the paper-thin walls, but he doesn’t get up just yet. 

It’s the first day of class. It’s finally starting to sink in that he’s _officially_ a university student. He lies in his bed for a moment, contemplating that, but is soon interrupted by Dog hopping onto the bed and pressing his cold nose against his chin. 

“Alright, alright, Dog,” Adam mutters, sitting up. He rubs his eyes and feels around for his blood sugar kit. He grimaces as he pricks his finger and lets the blood soak into the testing strip. Adam is fairly certain that no matter how many years pass, he will never be fully used to having to do this. It’s been five years since he was diagnosed, but he still dreads pricking his finger every time he has to do it. 

The testing meter beeps. 79. A little low, but he’ll be eating breakfast soon. 

“Thank you, Dog,” Adam whispers, rubbing the dog’s ears. He stands and stretches, and then digs around in his drawer for something to wear. He briefly considers dressing nicely, but decides to just wear something comfortable. 

He picks up his backpack and shoves a notebook, a couple pens, and his theory textbook into it. He still feels a bit sluggish from how poorly he slept, but he imagines a bit of cereal will do him well, so he makes his way to the kitchen. 

The only one of Adam’s flatmates that is awake yet is—what was his name? Brian? That sounds right. Brian sits at the table staring blankly into a bowl of cereal. Adam scoops some of Dog’s food into a bowl and puts it on the floor, and when Dog hears the familiar sound of dry dog food hitting plastic, he happily trots out of Adam’s room and sets about eating his breakfast. 

Adam, on the other hand, joins Brian at the table with his own bowl of cereal. The stove clock declares that it is 9:34 a.m., so he shakes himself from his daze and eats quickly so that he will have time to brush his teeth. 

Just before Adam finishes his cereal, Brian apparently realizes what time it is and begins frantically scooping corn flakes into his mouth, splashing a bit of milk onto the table, which he dries with his sleeve. He joins Adam in the bathroom to give his teeth a cursory once-over with a toothbrush.

Through a mouthful of toothpaste, Brian says, “What claff you got firft?”

Adam takes a moment to clear his mouth before answering, “Music theory. Lecturer’s got a real weird name.”

“Somethin’ like, with an A, Church?” asks Brian. “I got that one too.”

“Yeah, that.”

The two finish brushing their teeth in a slightly awkward silence. Adam gets Dog into his harness and checks to make sure he has his testing kit in his backpack, and they set off for class together. They don’t talk much on the way there, but the silence grows to be comfortable, rather than awkward, and when they arrive at the lecture hall, they sit together near the middle of the room. 

A few minutes after Adam and Brian get themselves settled, the last stragglers hurry in, followed by a rather doughy-looking man whose clothing choices remind Adam vaguely of Victorian fashion. The man stops at the front of the classroom and settles himself on a stool, crossing his legs. 

“Good day,” he says cheerily, and the class falls silent. “Welcome to music theory. My name is Aziraphale Church. You’re free to give my first name a shot, but you are also welcome to call me Church, if that would be easier for you.” He pauses for a moment. “I have a few things for you, just some first-day-of-class sort of things—” he trails off as he stands and retrieves a stack of papers from his satchel. He divides it into smaller stacks and advances up the stairs, handing them off and instructing them to take one and pass it on.

Aziraphale returns to his seat at the front of the lecture hall. As he takes a moment to go over the syllabus, Adam zones out a bit, deciding he will read it for himself later. Aziraphale goes on and on about the syllabus, seemingly intent on touching on every part of it. Adam supposes that’s a good thing for him to do, if a bit boring. 

About fifteen minutes into class, Adam is jolted from his reverie by the rustling of papers. He looks around and finds that the other students are putting away their syllabuses and clearing their desks. He hurries to follow suit and tunes back in to Aziraphale’s voice.

“...purely diagnostic. It won’t have any affect on your grade whatsoever. All it does is give me a good idea of where each of you is in your understanding of music theory,” says Aziraphale as he hands out stacks of something new. This one has multiple pages, and Adam glances over them as he listens to Aziraphale explain the assignment. “I am sure each of you comes from a different theory background, and this will tell me what I need to know so that I can best help you learn. It should take you about thirty minutes to finish, but don’t be afraid to take longer if you need it. We’ll take a short break after the quiz.” With that, Aziraphale returns to his seat, pulls a book from his satchel, and re-crosses his legs in the other direction, settling himself in to read peacefully until everyone is done with their quizzes.

Adam sets about his quiz. When he woke up this morning, he thought he had a decent background in music theory, but as he looks over the second half of the quiz, he realizes there is a lot he doesn’t know. Nevertheless, he does the best he can, and he manages to complete most of the quiz with halfhearted confidence.

——

Aziraphale is almost done with _Dorian Gray_. He has worked his way through it during the week leading up to the start of classes, and he is pleased that his usual first-day lesson plans are simple, as he is fairly certain he can finish it off while the students take their diagnostic quiz. Some of his colleagues might say that this is a cop-out first day, but Aziraphale has found that this is the best way for him to gauge where his incoming first-years are in their knowledge of music theory. In the past he has seen all levels of fluency in the subject—everything from incoming vocalists whose backsliding choir teachers never even pressed them to learn to read sheet music, to snobby young pianists who took advanced music theory classes in secondary school, in which they began to tackle the rules of four-part harmony. With such a wide range of exposure levels, Aziraphale has come to understand that quizzes such as these are the best way to know just where everyone stands without making them tell the whole class.

One by one, students begin to finish their quizzes. As the first person makes their way to where Aziraphale sits, he puts down his book. He smiles and greets each student warmly as he collects their papers. The boy with the service dog approaches with his quiz, and Aziraphale wonders vaguely what the dog does. He casts his thoughts back to his rosters. Had they included a note about a service dog? He’s fairly certain they had. An alert dog of some sort. Aziraphale smiles at the two of them and waves genially at the dog, which wags its tail in response. 

As the last student finishes up, Aziraphale stands. He picks up the stack of quizzes and dismisses the class for a ten-minute break, during which he prepares himself for the remaining two hours of the lecture. 

He spends the remainder of class talking about things like why music theory is important, how it relates to other aspects of their musical education, and what they will cover over the course of the semester. Around 12:35, Aziraphale runs out of things to talk about, so he assigns the class their reading for the week, and dismisses them early. 

As the last few students round the corner out of the classroom, Aziraphale leans over on the desk, resting on his palms. He breathes out a sigh of relief. The first day of classes hits him hard every year, no matter how many times he has done it before. On top of that, his encounter with Crowley the previous evening still weighs heavily on his mind, and that has made it very difficult for him to focus on much of anything. But he’s made it through the first class, and from here he knows he’ll be just fine.

Aziraphale returns to his office, flicking the lights off as he leaves the lecture hall. He settles himself into his desk chair and retrieves his lunch from his mini fridge. The rush from the end-of-lecture relief has ebbed away by now, leaving only hunger and a stack of quizzes to grade. He eats absentmindedly as he glances over the first few quizzes. So far, they seem to indicate a relatively wide range of understanding, which Aziraphale expected. 

The hours pass slowly, and Aziraphale doesn’t have much to do other than work his way through his grading. He could be doing this in the comfort of his home, but he holds office hours religiously, so he resolves to stay until at least four. 

Just before 3:30, there is a light knock on his door frame. He glances up, and his face splits into a pleasant smile.

“Anathema! Lovely to see you,” says Aziraphale. “Has the day treated you well thus far?”

“Not too bad,” she answers, smiling. 

“Would you care to sit a while?” asks Aziraphale, gesturing vaguely at a chair in front of his desk. 

“Oh, I can’t,” replies Anathema, giving Aziraphale an apologetic look. “Gotta run to a meeting for violin studio class. New instructor this year—Anthony Crowley—so I have to make my judgements about him.”

Aziraphale stiffens ever so slightly at the mention of Crowley’s name. “Of course,” he says, trying to act as he normally does. Despite his efforts, he can tell from Anathema’s expression that she has picked up on his abnormal reaction. Normally, he would add some gentle warning about passing judgement on others, and Anathema would roll her eyes and smile. But he doesn’t. Instead, he bids her a good day as she excuses herself.

Aziraphale tries to return to his grading, but finds that he can no longer concentrate. His mind has been drawn back to Anth— _Crowley_ once more, and it has completely ruined any semblance of focus he had hoped to achieve. He sighs heavily, irritated at himself for letting this get to him so badly. Unfortunately, no matter how frustrated he gets with himself, having his thoughts turned toward Crowley is still putting him in a mood. He’s ended up in a familiar, but still highly unpleasant circular thought process, wherein he is annoyed about his reaction to something, but his annoyance continually reminds him of the thing to which he is having a poor reaction, which, in turn, only yields more annoyance.

Aziraphale glances at his clock. 3:48 p.m. It’s close enough to four, he decides, so he grouchily packs up his belongings and heads for home. 

——

As Anathema leaves Aziraphale’s office, she wonders vaguely why he reacted so strangely to her mention of the new violin instructor. But she has a great many other things to worry about right now, and the issue slips from her mind quickly. 

As she steps into Crowley’s studio, she is struck by how different it looks than it has when it belonged to Agnes. It’s only logical that it would look different, she reminds herself, but she really hadn’t expected quite so many plants. They are quite beautiful, though. 

Anathema glances over at her new instructor. He is very deliberately lounging in a desk chair that really wasn’t made for lounging. Her brows furrow slightly. That can’t be comfortable.

The last of the students in the studio edge into the crowded room, and Crowley stands up to introduce himself. Anathema is already familiar with who he is. She has looked up to his playing for a great many years, but, as they say, never meet your heroes. She has spent quite some time fretting about this, and is overall quite nervous to actually meet him. So far, however, he seems perfectly fine. Perhaps a bit blunt, but she can handle that. The real test will be her first lesson with him. 

Crowley passes around papers and asks everyone to fill them out with their schedules, so that he can assign lesson times. As the students set about writing down their schedules, he talks for a moment about his expectations for them, as well as his preferred technique books for various levels of experience.

The meeting is relatively short, and just after four the students file out of Crowley’s office. Anathema stands back to let a first-year with a dog exit before her. She glances at the dog. A service dog. She watches him pass. “What’s the dog for?” 

The boy whips around, startled. “Er— diabetes,” he replies.

“Diabetes?” Anathema does not consider how her American tendency to ask questions of strangers might come off to the first-year. “Can he, like, tell your blood sugar?”

“No, he just tells me when to check it.”

Anathema is slightly disappointed. This seems a little mundane to her, but she does not let on. “What’s his name?”

“It’s Dog. Just Dog.”

At this, Anathema cannot keep herself from laughing. The first-year laughs nervously along with her, and then, in a rush of confidence, sticks his hand out to her.

“I’m Adam. First-year.”

“Pleased to meet you, Adam,” says Anathema, shaking his hand. “I’m Anathema. Post-grad.”

“That’s a cool name,” says Adam, grinning.

“Thank you, Adam,” replies Anathema with a smile. She glances behind him and toward Aziraphale’s office, but is disappointed to find that it is closed and dark. She is reminded once again of Aziraphale’s strange reaction to her mentioning her new instructor. 

Anathema’s face must show her pensiveness, because Adam opens his mouth to speak, but Anathema beats him to the punch.

“It was nice to meet you, Adam,” she says politely. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, but I’ve got to run.” With that, she takes her leave, her mind replaying her interaction with Aziraphale, trying to understand it.

Days go by, and in the days prior to her first lesson, Anathema drops by Aziraphale’s office twice more. She takes care to name-drop Crowley each time she visits, and each time, Aziraphale reacts the same way: he clams up, and she senses that it would be best if she took her leave. 

Eventually, Anathema decides to stop bringing up Crowley’s name. She has observed Aziraphale’s reaction to be consistent, and supposes she should stop causing him whatever turmoil the thought of Crowley causes him. 

Anathema has her first lesson with Crowley the Monday after classes start. She is very nervous going in, but she gets the sense that Crowley is a bit nervous as well. She knows that if she can keep up with him and his lofty expectations, she will make leaps and bounds in her playing, but she also worries that she won’t be able to meet his standards. But, being as stubborn as she is, she manages to force herself into confidence. She comes into her lesson warmed up, anxious to make a good impression.

Crowley begins by asking her what she has worked on in recent years, and what she worked on over the summer. She tells him, and he requests that she play something so he can assess her skill. She begins the first movement of a Bartók concerto, and as she plays, she can feel Crowley’s eyes on her. He walks around her in slow circles, observing her posture and technique. This is nothing Anathema isn’t familiar with, but, being that she is with a brand new instructor, she finds that it is affecting her more than it usually would.

About halfway through the first movement, Crowley signals for her to stop. “Can I touch you?” he asks, gesturing to Anathema’s shoulder.  
“Yeah, sure,” replies Anathema, lowering her bow. 

“No, keep that up,” says Crowley. “Start back at the beginning of the movement.” 

Anathema complies, and feels Crowley’s hands gently press her shoulders down. She hadn’t realized how tense she was until that moment, so she takes a slow breath and let the rest of her body relax. She can hear the improvement in her tone immediately, and she feels better about how things are going.

“Much better,” says Crowley. Anathema can hear a smile in his words, and it gives her another rush of confidence.

The rest of the lesson continues in much the same way. Anathema plays through the Bartók concerto, pausing every so often for Crowley to correct her, offer advice, or point out new ways to interpret the music. He even plays for her a little. She loses track of time, doing her best to focus on his playing, but she finds it a bit difficult. This is mainly because she spends a great deal of her one-hour lesson wondering just what it is about Crowley that sets Aziraphale off so badly. He seems nice enough, and he is intimidatingly good at what he does. 

Anathema leaves her lesson just as unsure how to feel about Crowley as she was when she first walked into his office the previous week. She likes him perfectly well, but she knows Aziraphale better, and trusts him deeply. If he doesn’t trust Crowley, she doesn’t want to either. However, Anathema has always considered herself to be a good judge of character, and thus far, has found no evidence supporting the idea that Crowley is not to be trusted.

The day after her lesson, Anathema chances to see Aziraphale and Crowley pass in the hallway outside the bathroom. The look on Aziraphale’s face is of particular interest to her—she has never seen such a withering expression on his face. In fact, the look Aziraphale gives does not seem to be the kind one gives to someone they don’t trust, but rather something else—something angrier and more complicated. If looks could kill, Crowley would be a dead man. She knows Aziraphale as kind and gentle, not as whatever anger-filled man is passing her in the hallway. 

Intrigued, Anathema glances over at Crowley. She can tell he has seen Aziraphale’s glare, but his own expression is much harder to read. She knows this is partly because she doesn’t know him as well, but she gets the unshakeable sense that Crowley is also a much harder man to crack than Aziraphale is. 

This whole encounter lasts five seconds, at most, but it serves to pique Anathema’s interest in her teachers’ past even more. She briefly considers asking one of them about it, but decides to wait and watch for a while more. 

——

Anathema is not the only person who notices the animosity between Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale’s glares at the man whenever they pass in the hall are anything but subtle, and before long, the familiar muted buzz of gossip fills the music building. 

One such conversation occurs in the student housing unit occupied by Adam and Brian. They sit at their kitchen table, tag-teaming on their music theory homework, when the conversation wanders to a discussion of their teachers. 

Brian, though not as familiar with Crowley due to his being a percussionist, rather than a violinist, is well-versed in the rumors flying about Crowley and Aziraphale’s past. 

“I reckon he owes him money,” says Adam. 

“Who owes who?” asks Brian, trying to decide which option is more realistic. 

“Er… Crowley owes,” answers Adam. “Why else would ‘Zira be so mad?”

“Naw,” says Brian. “Crowley’s too posh lookin’ to owe someone money. Bet he’s loaded.”

Adam concedes with a slow nod, and Brian launches into his interpretation of the situation.

“My money’s on Crowley rejecting him.”

“How d’you mean?” asks Adam.

“Well…” Brian stops to think for a moment. “Aziraphale seems a bit of a fairy.”

Adam’s brow furrows, and he sees Pepper’s head pop out of her bedroom doorway. He’s gathered by now that she has an almost inhuman sense for when someone is about to say something pigheaded, and she remains leaning out of her doorway, listening to Brian. 

“I figure ol’ ‘Zira made a pass at him,” Brian continues. “And Crowley wasn’t into that on account of Aziraphale being a pansy, and now ‘Zira hates him.”

“That’s very rude, you know,” says Pepper from her doorway. “To call a gay man a fairy. Or a pansy.”

“I— I didn’t mean it badly,” stammers Brian. “I just mean— well, he’s pretty obvious.”

Pepper arches an eyebrow at Brian, and the latter casts a glance toward Adam in search of backup. Adam, however, has learned not to oppose Pepper on matters such as these—not to mention, he rather agrees with her. 

“It is a bit rude,” says Adam, shrugging. 

Brian realizes he has been defeated, and looks down at his lap, a bit of a guilty expression on his face. “I s’pose you’re right,” he says. “But I still think he’s gay.”

“I do agree with that,” says Adam, and the conversation subsides.

——

Days turn into weeks, and things continue much as they have been. Aziraphale avoids Crowley, and in return, Crowley avoids Aziraphale. Crowley does not carry the same disdain for Aziraphale as Aziraphale does for him, but rather, he chooses to avoid him because he knows well the discomfort of the memories Aziraphale is forced to relive every time he sees him.

Crowley is very annoyed to discover that, although he does not feel the same about Aziraphale as he did when last they met, there is still a soft spot deep inside him for the man. That is to say, Crowley cares about Aziraphale, and wants to see him comfortable. So he avoids him, because he knows that this is what has to happen. Crowley is quite familiar with the feeling of paying for Aziraphale’s comfort with his own emotional labor, but he isn’t bothered by it. It’s not like he wants to be around Aziraphale, anyway. If he’s honest, he still feels a bit guilty for what happened, and each and every glare Aziraphale shoots him reminds him of it. 

But never mind that. He knows he shouldn’t dwell on the past, and he wishes Aziraphale wouldn’t either, but some things aren’t easy to forget. 

September turns red and gold, and before Crowley knows it, October is halfway gone. His lessons, so far, are going well. He is pleased with his students’ performances so far, and he continues to push them harder and harder.

Crowley has grown particularly fond of Anathema. Her sharp wit and sharper tongue keep him well-entertained, and he sees in her a wealth of potential for a highly successful career in performance. This leads him to push her even harder than he pushes the rest of his students, and he is continually impressed when she rises to meet his expectations. She is already well into her preparation for her master’s recital, and overall, it is going excellently. 

There are, however, some weeks where things don’t go so smoothly. Everyone has their off-weeks, and Anathema is no exception.

On a gloomy Monday afternoon in late October, Anathema arrives at her lesson in a particularly bad mood, and Crowley can tell from the moment she walks into his office that this is going to be a rough lesson. Thus far, his lessons with Anathema have all gone relatively smoothly, so he braces himself. 

Anathema drops her backpack on the floor by the doorway, the dull thunk of textbooks hitting the ground betraying just how heavy it is. She pulls out her violin and rips through a cursory warm up. When she comes to a stop, Crowley stands and steps toward her. She glances at him, and he can see on her face the look brought about by someone trying not to glare at someone else who doesn’t deserve it. She forces a smile. 

“What have you worked on this week?” asks Crowley, diving right in. 

Anathema pauses for a moment before answering, “Same old, same old. Recital prep and stuff.”

Crowley arches an eyebrow. Crowley asks this question every week, and usually Anathema gives very specific answers, so her evasiveness tips him off that she has not practiced enough. 

“Anything more specific?” he presses, trying to give Anathema the opportunity to prove his conclusion wrong, or at least to explain herself.

“You know. General stuff.” 

“Play me something you’ve worked on.” Crowley knows full well he is leading Anathema to her doom, at least within the context of this lesson. 

Anathema purses her lips and raises her violin. She takes a deep breath, making a conscious effort to relax her shoulders. Her eyes slide shut, and she begins playing the first movement of Sibelius’s violin concerto. Crowley listens discerningly, paying attention to her phrasing and listening for improvements from her previous lesson. When she reaches a more technically difficult section, he lets her continue for a few measures, and then stops her. He sends her back to the start of the phrase and listens once more. 

“Anathema—” he says. She stops playing, avoiding his eye. “It would be easier if you just told me you didn’t practice.”

Anathema says nothing, still not making eye contact. 

“You don’t sound any better this week than you did last week. In fact, you sounded better last week.”

She shoots him a sharp glare. “I know.”

“Everyone has rough weeks, Anathema. I also worked on my master’s, at one point.”

Anathema arches an eyebrow. “But?” she says, expecting there to be more to Crowley’s statement. 

Crowley sighs. “Why didn’t you practice?” he asks bluntly.

Anathema’s shoulders droop. “Just stressed. Midterms are killing me.” 

“That’s alright,” says Crowley. “I’ve come to expect a lot from you.” 

Anathema’s eyes flash. There it is. 

Crowley continues, “You’ve proved yourself to be highly capable over the last few weeks. You’ve made it clear that you can handle this, and I expect better from you in the future. At the very least, communicate.” 

Crowley watches Anathema soak in his admonition. He feels a twinge of guilt, but fends it off with the argument that this is his job. He is _supposed_ to push his students to be better.

“Go on playing,” he instructs, and the lesson continues. 

——

The next morning, Aziraphale arrives in his office after a night of restless sleep. He usually has no trouble sleeping, but every now and again, the nightmares get to him. He had some tea when he woke up, but it has become apparent to him that the small amount of caffeine in it will not be sufficient, so he begrudgingly decides to go make himself some coffee. Aziraphale is not particularly fond of coffee, and therefore doesn’t have a coffee machine in his apartment, so he is at the unfortunate mercy of whoever stocks the faculty break room.

In his sleep-deprived daze, Aziraphale _almost_ doesn’t notice Crowley standing in the break room, rummaging through the slim selection of pods for the coffee machine. He does, however, almost run into him. Aziraphale mutters an apology and shuffles around him, before suddenly taking notice of the man’s shoes. He only knows one person who would wear snakeskin shoes in public—

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, in a valiant attempt at polite conversation. 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale coldly. He reaches out and plucks the first pod he touches from the basket in Crowley’s hand. He turns away from him and busies himself with the coffee machine. 

“Aziraphale—“

“Colleagues,” snaps Aziraphale. “Colleagues only.”

“Colleagues still talk to each other sometimes.”

Aziraphale crosses his arms and says nothing, waiting impatiently for his coffee to be done. 

Crowley breaks the silence. “And they don’t glare at each other in the hallway.”

“Sometimes they do,” replies Aziraphale, avoiding Crowley’s eye. He is suddenly painfully aware of just how slow the break room coffee machine is. 

“They don’t have to,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale notices that he is struggling to maintain an even tone. “Especially when their dispute happened almost twenty years ago. And wasn’t either of their faults. I don’t know why you’re still taking this out on me—”

“I have no one else to blame!” Aziraphale snaps, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.

Crowley frowns. “I don’t know, maybe your f—“

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Aziraphale growls, his voice breaking. He is shaking mad, and struggles to maintain his composure. “He’s dead, anyway.”

“That still doesn’t make it my fault.”

Aziraphale says nothing for a moment, gritting his teeth. He exhales sharply and squeezes his eyes shut, as if that will somehow make this situation easier for him to navigate. “I know. I know you’re right,” he says slowly. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know,” replies Crowley gently. “All I’m asking is that you don’t try to stab me with your eyes when we pass in the hall. Nothing more.”

Aziraphale takes another moment before replying, “I’ll try. I’ll try.”

The coffee machine beeps, and Aziraphale takes the out while he has it. He grabs his cup and practically flees the break room, to the extent that he can while carrying a mug of hot coffee. 

Back in his office, with only a mere fifteen minutes until he is due to give a three-hour lecture on series counterpoint, Aziraphale has a full-blown panic attack. He manages not to black out or vomit, but he does cry a bit, which annoys him greatly. He has to teach soon, and he would rather _not_ appear as if he has just been crying, even if he has. 

This time, his panic attack is not just because of the memories. That’s still part of it, but in all honesty, it is mostly because Aziraphale knows that Crowley is right. He is needlessly expending energy on being angry at him, even though Crowley really doesn’t deserve that. Aziraphale knows this, but it frightens him to acknowledge that it is true, and it frightens him even more to acknowledge that there isn’t anyone for him to blame. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright folks there it is. i'm not as confident in this chapter as I was the last one, so apologies if it doesn't read as well.
> 
> from here on out I'm going to do my best to update every sunday (I know it's technically monday now but I haven't gone to bed yet so it doesn't count), but this coming week I'm going to be like balls deep in gen con, so I'm not sure if my update will be on time. I'll do my best though.
> 
> many thanks to you all for reading, and for your kudos and comments. I love you all!


	3. As the Avalanche Begins to Slide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "The Other Side" by Jukebox the Ghost, which is, once again, my very favorite band ever.
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Thirty billion thanks to Dio once again for helping me in literally every possible way with this!!

After their encounter in the faculty break room, Aziraphale makes a real effort not to treat Crowley as disdainfully as he has been for the past several weeks. They don’t go out of their way to see each other, and they certainly aren’t friends, but at least Aziraphale doesn’t glare at him anymore when they pass in the hall. 

Well, it has taken him a bit to get there, but his effort has paid off. By the end of October, Aziraphale sometimes gives Crowley a small nod of acknowledgement, or perhaps even smiles tightly at him. Crowley returns these favors, and slowly, but surely, Aziraphale’s animosity begins to fade, leaving detached acquaintanceship in its wake. 

Aziraphale does not achieve this without a great deal of help. Between the valiant efforts of his therapist, who has had her work cut out for these past few weeks, and a very patient confessional priest, who has begun to become very interested in the events transpiring in Aziraphale’s life, he has managed to make real progress. His therapist gently pushes him to take care of himself and tells him not to put his sometimes-fragile stability in danger, while also reminding him that the longer he harbors anger about things that cannot be undone, the unhappier he will become. She does not tell him to forgive, but rather to let go. Aziraphale, naturally, finds this rather difficult, as it is his tendency to hold onto things for as long as he can, be they material or immaterial. She knows there is a lot more to this issue than just Aziraphale’s inability to let go of the past, but she has also seen many a time what happens when he is pushed too hard, and long ago she resolved to let him reach peace at his own pace.

The kindly priest has become very good at recognizing Aziraphale’s voice. He has noticed an upswing in visits from the man ever since the start of the academic year, and is very interested to learn more about the individual who has been the unfortunate target of Aziraphale’s petty wrath. He knows little more about the situation, however, and Aziraphale is reluctant to tell more of the story, so there isn’t much advice he can give. All the priest can do is assure a nervous Aziraphale that the Almighty has forgiven him.

——

Crowley notices Aziraphale’s efforts to be more cordial. He appreciates them, and is glad that he no longer has to be on his guard against Aziraphale’s misdirected anger. This, though he does not know it, has made him vulnerable.

This vulnerability rears its head one morning near the end of October, when Crowley chances to walk by a lecture hall in which Aziraphale is teaching. He shoots a perfectly innocent glance through the narrow window on the door and catches sight of Aziraphale animatedly explaining deceptive cadences to his first-year theory students. It has been a long time since Crowley last saw Aziraphale excited about anything, and though he knows that’s because of their unfortunate history, it still hits him like a truck. 

Much to his chagrin, Crowley finds that something warm and familiar is trying feebly to awaken inside him, so he beats it back with a metaphorical stick. He regretfully accepts that pointedly not dealing with his own emotions over the last two decades might not have been his best move, as it appears that, however weak, there is still something deep inside him that has feelings for Aziraphale. He quickly walks away from the lecture hall, shoving those feelings down as far as he can, and he feels guilty for raging internally against Aziraphale for not moving on, even though weeks have passed since he did. The pain of heartbreak subsided a great many years ago, but Crowley almost wishes that it hadn’t. That, at least, would serve to keep him from pining so pathetically after a man who left him twenty years ago, leaving him with a lot of misery, but no closure. 

But, alas, Crowley is a softie. He will never acknowledge this, of course, but he is, and that is what has put him in this position.

Crowley lets himself into his office and paces around for several minutes, frantically trying to sort through his feelings. This is an unfamiliar process for him, and it shows. Seeing Aziraphale teach has reminded Crowley what drew him to the man in the first place: his sincerity, his doe-eyed passion for the things he loves, the way Crowley can tell the world melts away from him when he is in his element. Crowley is uncomfortable with how vividly these feelings have returned, so he grabs his plant mister and starts spritzing his plants urgently.

“Fuckin’ idiot, I am,” he mutters to his African mask plant, picking through its leaves to look for spots. There is a withered leaf near the base of the plant, so he gently plucks it off and tosses it in the trash can. “Come on, you can do better than that,” he tells it. “I raised you better than this.”

He moves on to his aluminum plant. “How are you doing over here? How’s the sunlight?” He moves it to a different spot. “Is the light better here? I know you don’t like too much.” He checks the moistness of the soil and, finding it to be appropriate, continues on. 

“What do you think?” he asks a panda plant, gently stroking its leaves. This is one of his favorite plants because of the thick fuzz that grows on its leaves. He likes the way it feels, and often rubs it when he is thinking hard about something. “It’s not like I asked for this. God, what the hell? How am I supposed to deal with this shit?” He realizes that he is squeezing his poor panda plant’s leaf too hard and walks away, resuming his pacing. His mind ricochets between a number of emotions, and slowly, he begins to separate and identify them. 

First, he is irritated. Mostly with himself, but still. How did he end up here? He feels like an idiot for letting his feelings sit unresolved for so long. He thought they had subsided, but he has found that they only faded from view, not from his heart. He hates that he is so sentimental sometimes. 

Secondly, he is annoyed with Aziraphale for hanging onto his anger for so long. He recognizes that Aziraphale has been trying, and he can only imagine how difficult it has been for him, but in all the rawness of his emotions right now, his anger surges back. If they could have just reached some sort of _closure_ , maybe Crowley wouldn’t be in this position right now. But they hadn’t, and here he is. 

Then he is overcome with guilt once more for being angry at Aziraphale for avoiding his feelings, when he has been doing the exact same thing for just as long. He doesn’t really have room to say anything, does he? The guilt, in turn reminds him of the feelings he has, because he has not dealt with them, and he is irritated at himself all over again. 

Crowley takes a few trips around this delightfully circular thought process before pulling out his violin. He starts playing and he doesn’t stop until his brain is no longer buzzing so badly.

Crowley pauses for a moment, and in the silence he hears the slightly muted but distinct sound of a piano. Through the window in his office door, he can see into Aziraphale’s office. His lecture must be over, because he sits at his piano, absorbed in what he is playing. Crowley stands for a moment and watches, intrigued by the look of intense concentration on his face. 

Crowley turns around, determined to keep playing without distractions. By now, however, his concentration has been broken. Despite his best efforts not to, he listens as Aziraphale slows a section down and plays it over and over, working out the mistakes.

Without thinking, Crowley raises his violin. He listens carefully once more to the melody that Aziraphale is looping, and then plays it back on his violin.

The piano music comes to an abrupt stop.

Refusing to let himself feel dismayed, Crowley presses on with his playing. Aziraphale does not resume his piano playing, and a few moments later, Crowley hears the telltale sound of an office door opening and closing. He glances behind him, and sees that Aziraphale’s office has gone dark.

——

When Aziraphale hears Crowley parrot back the simple melody he is working on, he freezes. He knows he shouldn’t get up in arms about this, but it still startles him, and he isn’t sure how he should respond. All he has known how to feel toward Crowley for so many years is anger, and by now, it’s habitual. He manages to fend it off this time, however, which he is proud of on some level. On most other levels, he is annoyed that it took him so much effort to do something so simple as not be angry at someone who doesn’t deserve it.

By now, Aziraphale’s concentration has been broken so completely that he decides to leave for the day. As he walks home, he continues to mull over what just happened, but by the time he arrives at his apartment door, he still isn’t quite sure how to feel about it. Part of him feels a twinge of guilt for practically fleeing the moment he heard Crowley mimic him, but most of him wonders why Crowley did it in the first place. The only explanations Aziraphale can come up with is that it was either mockery or some sort of wordless olive branch. He decides it wasn’t mockery—however blunt he may come across, Crowley has never been antagonistic or cruel. But an olive branch? He doesn’t owe Aziraphale anything. There is no peace left to be made. 

Aziraphale spends his evening at home, letting his mind continue to wander. He makes himself dinner and spends some quality time with Oscar Wilde, finally able to let his thoughts rest. As he lays in bed that night, however, he arrives at a somewhat uncomfortable conclusion: what if Crowley was extending not an olive branch, but rather a hand in friendship?

Aziraphale spends much of the next hour wondering if he should have done something different. He wants Crowley to know he’s trying to move on, but at the same time, he’s wary of getting too close. It’s harder than he expected to find the happy medium of friendly acquaintanceship with a man with whom he has so much painful history—a man he once loved.

Loved?

No. Impossible. A temporary infatuation, at most. A temptation to which he briefly succumbed. A phase that he quickly outgrew.

Aziraphale puts the matter from his mind, rolls over, and goes to sleep. 

——

When Crowley arrives at home that night, he is still kicking himself for his impulsiveness. It escapes him why he had let himself think that there could be more than a cold silence between him and Aziraphale ever again. He takes out his frustration on a bottle of Talisker and his plants. 

When scolding his plants doesn’t make him feel any better, he sits down for a moment with his whisky, then drains his glass. He is getting that uncomfortable antsy feeling in his legs and the pit of his stomach, so he huffs and marches toward his door, intent on a walk. He doesn’t make it very far, however, before he spots a well-known local pub. He’s seen it a few times before, and has been meaning to give it a shot.

_No time like the present_ , he muses, and walks inside. 

He is met with brash music and dim lighting. Being that it is early evening on a Wednesday, there are relatively few people there. He takes a seat at the bar and tells the bartender to give him whatever’s on the top shelf. As he waits for his drink, he glances around him. There are a few groups of people in the main seating area, and several deserted pool tables. A few stools down from him at the bar sits a man a little older than him. Seeing Crowley’s movement out of the corner of his eye, the man glances over his shoulder and gives Crowley a hungry once-over. Crowley pretends not to notice. He didn’t come here to find a one night stand. 

Although, it might not be so bad if he were to find one. 

It would be a nice distraction in the midst of everything that’s been going on. The bartender hands Crowley his drink, and he takes a sip, shooting a glance at the older man. He is relatively attractive, Crowley concedes, and he turns his body just a little bit toward him, as a passive invitation for the man to come talk to him. 

It doesn’t take long for it to work. The man sidles up to Crowley and takes the stool next to him. 

“Do you play pool?” asks the man. “Been trying to find someone to play for a half hour now.”

Crowley smirks. “I play a little,” he says, and follows the man over to the pool table. Crowley uses his turns as an opportunity to show off his hind end, smug in the knowledge that it is working, if his interpretation of the man’s body language is correct.

Three games and a few more drinks later, Crowley leads the man back to his apartment. When he leaves in the morning, Crowley finds that he doesn’t feel any better than he did before. Not that the sex was bad—it was really quite good, as a matter of fact—but it wasn’t satisfying, in that it did nothing to relieve Crowley’s mind of the pesky feelings it has been dealing with lately.

Lying alone in his bed, Crowley sighs. He’s fucked. 

——

Over the course of the next few days, Aziraphale does his best not to think about what happened. He puts the matter from his mind and adds it to the growing list of things he needs to move on from.

As he walks to his office after a fairly normal theory 1 lecture, he chances to pass Crowley in the hall. Given that St. Basil is not a particularly large school, this is not out of the ordinary, but something is different today. Aziraphale isn’t sure why, but the usual impenetrably neutral expression Crowley wears when they pass in the hall has been replaced by something more questioning. His eyes almost beg, _Can you see me? And not just see that I’m here—can you see me?_

Aziraphale isn’t quite sure what exactly his expression says in response. All he knows is that it isn’t his usual forced indifference either. Quickly becoming unnerved, he breaks eye contact and hurries to his office. He clears his mind of distractions and sets about grading his students’ homework. 

Time passes. Aziraphale gets some good work done, and decides to take a break. He moves to the piano and lets himself be lost in the piece he has most recently begun working on. So far, he has managed to hammer out most of the piece on each hand individually, and he is now beginning to work on putting them together. Things have been going well so far, but there is one particular passage that still eludes him. He plays it over and over, slowing it down to a snail’s pace and focusing on every beat, making sure each one is as perfect as he can manage. 

Aziraphale has been playing for about twenty minutes without interruption, when in the midst of a pause, he hears, once again, the sound of a violin echoing the melody he is playing. 

He stops. 

He considers. 

And, perhaps against his better judgement, he plays the melody back again, ever so slightly different than it was before.

Across the hall, though Aziraphale does not know it, Crowley is smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy folks here it is. apologies for how light this chapter is lmao. for the sake of consistency I aim for 4000-6000 words, but gen con was this weekend so I was lucky to get this much. in other news I am extremely exhausted and have slept like 9 entire hours since thursday, so apologies if this chapter seems a bit rough. I'm honestly just rly proud of myself for getting a chapter written at all during gen con lmao
> 
> anyway thank you for reading and I love you all!!


	4. Like a Weed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Lemon Boy by Cavetown!
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Thank you to Marisela for wanting me to keep writing so aggressively that I was afraid not to, and many thanks to Dio for their continued support and patience.

Late at night, in a practice room in the St. Basil music building, Anathema sits on her phone. She sat down several minutes ago to take a short break from practicing, and she has not been able to force herself to stand back up yet. She knows she needs to, but something in her just won’t let her. Finally, she gathers the motivation to stand up and raise her violin, but something is off. After a few more minutes, it becomes clear that no matter what she does, she won’t be able to get any more meaningful work done tonight, so she packs up her instrument and steps into the hall.

This is not the first practice session Anathema has had this year that has gone like this. She has had a lot of trouble concentrating on much of anything lately, and it has begun to take a serious toll on her mood as well as her playing. She has not put too much thought into why she has been having this difficulty lately. It is entirely new territory. The violin has always been a source of comfort for her, akin to meditation—if ever she is feeling off, or is having a bad day, she knows she can turn to her violin, and that after an hour or so with it, she will feel centered again. 

For the last few weeks, however, that has not been the case. More and more, she dreads having to practice. She never feels as if she is accomplishing what she needs to, and she has come out of her last few lessons feeling downright ashamed of her playing. This shame stems partly from her own high standards for herself, but it has been fed by Crowley’s sharp criticism. The more time goes on, the higher his expectations are becoming, and it has begun to feel insurmountable. There is only so much practicing she can do in a day, and she has to balance that with all her other work, her job, and the underlying exhaustion that she never seems to be able to escape.

Anathema is not the only person practicing late tonight. As she walks through the halls on her way to the instrument lockers, she passes a number of other students in practice rooms. She rounds the corner toward the stairwell and glances into a practice room and sees—what was his name? Adam, or something. He stands with his head back, his eyes toward the ceiling and his face contorted in a clear expression of frustration. When he looks back down, he sees Anathema where she has paused outside the door of his practice room. 

Anathema waves, and Adam responds with a halfhearted smile. Anathema opens the door and pokes her head in. 

“How’s it going?”

Adam laughs nervously, lowering his violin. “Not so good, if I’m honest.”

Anathema chuckles. “Me neither.”

There is a short silence.

“Crowley is kicking my ass,” says Adam, his shoulders drooping a little. 

“Mine too.” Anathema’s mouth presses into a thin line. 

“At least it’s not just me, then,” replies Adam with a weak laugh. “It sounds bad, but I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

“Me too, honestly.”

They stand in silence for another moment, before Anathema says, “Well, I should be off. I hope things get easier for you, though. Have a good night, Adam.” She turns around and begins to pull the door shut behind her. 

“Wait— Anathema?”

Anathema turns around. 

“Um, could you help me with this bit?” Adam points to a complicated passage in his music. “Crowley wants the whole first movement by my lesson tomorrow, but I can’t get this part. I’ve played it like, a thousand times.”

Anathema smiles. “Sure thing.” She steps into the practice room and takes a closer look at Adam’s music. 

Anathema stays with Adam until almost midnight, helping him work through the parts of his piece that he is having trouble with. Even if her own lesson this week is a disaster, she’ll be damned before she lets a young student be discouraged by an overly demanding instructor. When she finally leaves the building to walk home, she feels much better than when she left her practice room an hour or so before. 

Her good mood lasts her all the way until her lesson the next day. She passes Adam as he leaves his own lesson, and he gives her a thumbs up, looking slightly relieved. She smiles and steps into Crowley’s office. 

It does not take long for her good spirits to come crashing down around her. The help she gave Adam cannot help her in her own lesson, and it can’t cover up the fact that her practice regimen has been slipping significantly. Crowley comes down on her harder than ever this time, and she leaves her lesson nearly in tears and heads straight for Aziraphale’s office.

——

As October becomes November, a routine establishes itself. Crowley and Aziraphale still don’t talk much, but when Crowley hears Aziraphale playing the piano across the hall, he knows it is a tacit invitation for him to initiate a call and response. It is always Crowley who starts it—never Aziraphale—but Crowley doesn’t mind. He knows that for Aziraphale to extend such an invitation is a monumental accomplishment on his own part, and he treats it accordingly. He smiles at Aziraphale when their paths cross, and does his best not to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

As Crowley grows softer towards Aziraphale, he gets harsher toward his students. He knew that St. Basil was prestigious when he took the job—he wouldn’t have taken it if it wasn’t—but, even so, he was impressed by his students. Even the youngest of them have shown themselves to be formidable players for their age, and some of his postgrad students are at a level not even he could boast of being when he was working on his master’s. Seeing how talented his students are and measuring their improvement over the first portion of the semester has encouraged Crowley to raise his standards even higher. He’s found that his students, eager to please, will bend over backwards to meet his expectations, so he pushes them harder and harder, not realizing how much of a toll it is taking on them. 

As the semester mounts in intensity, Crowley begins to see some of his students falter. He supposes this is normal, and pushes them to improve. Even Anathema stumbles more and more. This eventually becomes frustrating to Crowley, as he knows full well how capable she is. He sees some improvement, but not as much as he has come to expect based on her performance earlier in the semester. He begins to worry that her master’s recital will not go as well as both of them would like, and as time has gone on, he has not only pushed her harder, but he has also become significantly harsher with her in her lessons. He thinks she is taking it well, and he is pleased to see that she has tough skin. He’s correct about this, but everyone has a breaking point. He doesn’t see her breakdowns at night, and he doesn’t see her anxiety attacks in response to or anticipation of her lessons. 

Aziraphale, however, does. 

Over the course of Aziraphale’s time at St. Basil, he has done his best to make himself someone that students can come to when they are stressed. He does this partly because of his desire to shine the light of the Almighty in whatever way he can, but mostly because he genuinely cares about the students that move through the institution. 

He looks up from his desk one day in early November to find Anathema standing in his doorway. She is holding her violin case in one hand and clutches a stack of sheet music and technique books to her chest with the other, and her backpack is slung loosely over one shoulder. The look on her face causes Aziraphale’s brows to furrow, and he quickly moves to close the door and gestures to Anathema to take a seat across from him. They sit in silence for a moment as Anathema gathers herself. She looks up at the ceiling and sighs. 

Finally, Anathema breaks the silence. “This semester is killing me.”

Aziraphale waits a moment before answering, “How so?”

Anathema rolls her eyes. “Agnes never got on me like Crowley does.” Despite how upset she is, she still notices that Aziraphale does not react at all to hearing Crowley’s name. 

“How so?”

“He just— I don’t know,” says Anathema. “Agnes was hard on me— on all of us. But not like Crowley.”

Aziraphale says nothing. He knows Anathema will keep going on her own. 

“I mean— He just— He never stops! I’ve never been this stressed out, and I know I don’t need to be, even though maybe I should be since I’ve got my master’s recital next semester, but I don’t think being this stressed is really helping me prepare for it anyway, and my grades are slipping, and I never want to do my work, I just want to sleep—”

Aziraphale can see the panic rising in Anathema’s eyes and knows she is getting too worked up.

“Anathema,” he interjects gently. “Don’t give yourself an anxiety attack. That’s not going to help you either.”

Anathema sighs again. “I know. I just— I can’t get away from it. I have to do all of this stuff, but he’s so demanding and I— I can’t keep this up, Aziraphale.” She blinks back tears. “Every time I mess something up, he’s on my ass about it. His expectations are fucking unreal, even for postgrad. He never fucking stops. It’s like getting hit with a train, except it’s every week and the train never stops, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I can’t even imagine how his undergrads are doing.” She pauses. “I actually talked to Adam last night. Adam… Young is his last name, I think? I saw him last night and he’s not doing much better than I am.”

Aziraphale’s mouth tightens at the corners. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but I’ve been where you are, and it’s not an easy position to be in.”

Anathema snorts almost derisively. “You’re telling me.”

“Take some time to rest, if you can.”

“I don’t think I can. I want to, but I have too much to do.” Anathema stands. “I need to practice.”

“Understood,” Aziraphale says. He hopes she will be able to find some time to relax, but he knows she probably won’t. 

“Thank you. For letting me vent. Thanks.”

“Anytime, Anathema. You know my door is always open.”

Anathema takes her leave, and Aziraphale’s mouth tightens in anger. He saw Anathema under many levels of stress throughout the previous school year, and she never expressed anything close to this. Aziraphale stews for a moment, debating whether he should say anything to Crowley. He is very protective of Anathema, and he knows how much she can handle, but doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries with her. But, he reasons, if Crowley has really managed to push her past her breaking point in just over a month, then he is likely being far too hard on all his students, not just her and Adam. 

Aziraphale sits for a moment longer, fidgeting with his hands and trying to convince himself to go talk to Crowley. In a rush of confidence, he stands up, marches across the hall, and knocks sharply on Crowley’s closed door, interrupting him from practicing. Crowley looks a little alarmed to see Aziraphale at his door, but opens it anyway.

“Aziraphale? What’s up?”

“May I come in?” asks Aziraphale curtly. 

“Course, of course,” says Crowley, standing aside.

Aziraphale closes the door behind him and stands in silence for a moment, glowering at him.

“Er— I thought you were less mad,” says Crowley with a hint of uncertainty. 

“This isn’t about that,” says Aziraphale coldly. “I talked to Anathema.”

“What’s your point?”

“The _point_ is I’ve never seen her so stressed. I know what she can handle, but what I _want_ to know is how on earth you’ve managed to push her to her breaking point in a _mere month and a half_.”

Crowley frowns. “Last I checked, Anathema was my student, not yours.”

“She was my student long before she was yours,” Aziraphale snaps. “And, _last I checked_ , being so hard on your students that they show up in my office after a lesson in the middle of an anxiety attack wasn’t considered good pedagogical technique.”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me how to teach my students, Aziraphale.”

“I’ll tell you anything I very well please!” Aziraphale crosses his arms. 

Crowley stares at him in infuriated silence. 

“You know full well that I’m right, Crowley. I’ve been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you have, and I’ve seen what happens when you push students too far. Just because _you_ think she should be fine doesn’t mean you’re right. You’re setting her up for failure!”

“If she can’t handle pressure like this, she’s in the wrong profession.”

“I’m not saying you should go easy on her! All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t push your students so far that they can’t function! Do you _want_ her to fail?!”

“I’m teaching my students exactly how my teacher taught me.”

“ _Your_ personal success does _not_ mean your teacher was good, Crowley.”

Crowley stands and stares, still not speaking. Both of them are stubborn, and neither wants to be the first to speak. 

Eventually, however, Crowley breaks the silence, growling, “Get out of my office, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s glare becomes even more lethal. “Gladly.” He turns on his heel and storms out, slamming the door behind him. 

——

 _How dare_ — fumes Crowley, pacing. He gathers his things and marches out of his office. He’s done for the day, anyway. He has no more lessons, and there’s no way he could get anything else done if he tried to practice in this state.

Crowley hasn’t been this angry in a long time. He remembers vividly the last time he was so mad, and, ironically, Aziraphale was involved then, too. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that time, but this time, it is. Crowley is absolutely appalled that Aziraphale had the nerve to tell him he is being too hard on his students. _His_ students, who he has license to teach in whatever way he sees fit, thank you very much. St. Basil is a prestigious school, and it is well within his rights to hold his students to the absolute highest standard. 

Crowley marches all the way down the stairs and to his car, imagining all sorts of different scenarios in which he might get to tell Aziraphale exactly what he thinks about that interaction. None of the scenarios are even remotely plausible, of course, and it doesn’t make him feel any better, but he does it anyway. 

When Crowley finally goes to bed that night, he has still not moved on from their conversation. His anger has ebbed away into more of a simmering irritation, but has become unsure if he is really the one in the right. 

These thoughts follow him into every lesson he teaches for the next week, and when Anathema walks in for her lesson the week following his falling out with Aziraphale, he is still thinking about it. He isn’t sure if it’s just because Aziraphale said something, or if Anathema is really feeling that much worse this week, but he can see the circles under her eyes more clearly than ever. She carries so much stress across her shoulders that it negatively affects her tone and her technical ability. He has noticed her faltering consistently in these areas in recent weeks, but now he worries that it may actually be his fault. 

Toward the end of her lesson, Anathema makes a particularly noticeable mistake, and he stops her. She avoids his eye, and he can tell she is waiting for him to come down on her. He is struck with a pang of guilt, suddenly realizing he isn’t sure how to be a forgiving teacher. 

“Ah— you’ve been really tense.”

Anathema nods.

“It’s affecting your playing.”

“I know.”

This is not going well. Crowley pauses a moment.

“Look,” he says. “I know I’ve been unnecessarily hard on you. On all my students, but especially you. My private instructor taught me this way, and it’s clearly shaped how I teach.” 

“I know,” says Anathema, a hint of coldness in her voice. This hits Crowley like a truck, and it only makes him feel worse.

“Please just— have patience with me. I’m trying to do better,” he continues. 

“As long as you’re patient with me,” says Anathema, her eyes snapping up to meet his. Crowley looks down. 

“And thank you for helping Adam,” says Crowley. “He told me.”

“Of course.”

“Look, you’re in a good place with your recital rep. You really are.”

“Thank you.” Anathema looks away. “It would be nice to have been told that before now.”

By now, they are almost out of time, so Crowley dismisses her, feeling even worse than he did when she first arrived.

——

In the many years since Crowley last was close to Aziraphale, he forgot how great of a sway the man had on him, and it is not until Anathema leaves her lesson that day that he fully realizes the extent of Aziraphale’s influence on him. Before Aziraphale barged into his office, he never would have _dreamed_ of feeling bad for pushing a student to their breaking point. To him, teachers have _always_ existed to push their students until they can’t be pushed anymore. Now, after all these years, he is dealing with the fact that he has been wrong about that.

In all honesty, he feels a bit silly that all it took was less than two months and one moderate scolding for him to bend to Aziraphale’s will, but he supposes that’s what he gets for not dealing with his puppy love for twenty years. Now that he’s had time to cool down and think, he can’t even bring himself to be angry at Aziraphale for being so indignant. He knows Aziraphale is right and that he has been unfair to his students, and he feels a duty to him to learn to be kinder to his students before he devolves into unabashed cruelty. 

Aziraphale, however, is still furious. He is much better at holding onto things than Crowley is, and he does just that. His hotheadedness has subsided by now into a cool indifference—he does not glare at Crowley in the hallway, but he does not look at him either. Once, about halfway through the week after their argument, he hears Crowley timidly extend an invitation to their usual call and response, but he ignores it and plays on. A moment later he hears Crowley’s office door open and close, and when he sneaks a glance over, he sees that Crowley has left for the day. Aziraphale feels a twinge of guilt, but it’s not long before he resumes his holier-than-thou stance about the whole affair. 

——

As Anathema leaves her lesson that day, she isn’t quite sure how to feel. Overall, Crowley’s sudden shift in teaching style has thrown her off quite a bit, but she _thinks_ it’s for the best. Crowley seemed apologetic enough, but she knows the real test will be whether or not he _actually_ becomes more understanding. She makes a mental note to talk to Adam regularly to see if that actually happens. 

Surely enough, however, despite Anathema’s doubts, it does happen. Over the next couple of weeks, she can see a weight lift from Adam’s shoulders, and she realizes that she no longer fears going to her own lessons. Not having something prepared to perfection no longer carries the same weight of consequence that it did before. 

Anathema can tell that Crowley is making a concerted effort to be more understanding. Clearly, this is not what he is used to, but she can see a gentle man underneath his hardened exterior. She begins to warm up to him even more, not only as a teacher, but also as a colleague and a peer, and her preparation for her master’s recital speeds up as she becomes less unnecessarily stressed. 

Aziraphale even asks her about it one day, as she is sitting in his office. She is a little surprised when he brings it up, but she answers honestly. 

“And he really has let up a bit?” says Aziraphale, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, as much as he can without being a bad teacher,” Anathema replies. The look of intense concern on Aziraphale’s face is throwing her for a loop. 

“Good. No one should be that stressed out because of a single instructor.”

Anathema gets the sense that Aziraphale may have said something to Crowley. She decides she doesn’t mind, however, because this will be good for Crowley’s whole studio, not just her. 

——

Aziraphale sighs. His anger at Crowley rushes away all at once after Anathema leaves his office. Perhaps he should have been less vindictive, but at least things are getting better for Anathema and Crowley’s other students. He wonders if he should say something to Crowley, just so he knows Aziraphale isn’t mad at him anymore. It annoys him a bit to realize it, but Aziraphale has come to enjoy his little interactions and call and response with Crowley, and he missed them more than he is willing to admit right now. Aziraphale sits at his desk for a moment longer, fidgeting with his hands. Finally coming to a decision, he stands up and leaves his office.

Is this an excuse to talk to Crowley? 

Perhaps. 

Is he going to do it anyway? 

Absolutely. 

Seeing that the light is on in Crowley’s office, he knocks, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for the door to open.

Crowley’s head pops out of a crack in the door. 

“Hello— Aziraphale?”

“Crowley. Er— I hope I didn’t interrupt you.”

“No, no, not at all. Do— do you need something?”

“Ah— yes. I just wanted— well, I wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For, ah, easing up. On Anathema. On all your students.”

“Oh. Of course. Turns out I don’t know much about being a forgiving teacher.”

“Comes with time, I suppose.” Aziraphale chuckles awkwardly. 

“I suppose,” says Crowley. 

A silence ensues. 

“I ought to be heading out,” says Aziraphale, desperate to break the silence. 

“Course, of course.”

Neither of them moves. 

“I’m sorry for how I reacted,” adds Aziraphale.

“It— it’s alright. I’m sorry too.”

Aziraphale turns to leave, but Crowley stops him.

“Aziraphale?” he says. “Can— can we be friends? After everything from before? Is there any way we can be friends again?”

Aziraphale pauses a moment before replying, “I don’t see why not. I, ah— I will admit, I have missed you. I didn’t know until I saw you again, but I’ve missed you all these years.”

“I’ve missed you too,” replies Crowley.

Aziraphale, admittedly, is a little unnerved by the intensity in Crowley’s eyes, but this time, instead of recoiling, he smiles and accepts it.

They part ways, for the time being, but when Aziraphale returns to his office, he immediately sits down at his piano and begins playing. It is not long before he hears a violin echo him, and he smiles. 

——

As Crowley and Aziraphale lose themselves in their first musical interaction since their falling out, Adam happens to walk between their offices. Anathema leans against the wall outside Aziraphale’s office, her head tipped to one side, listening. Adam catches her eye, and she gestures to Crowley and Aziraphale’s closed office doors. 

Adam stops and looks at his shoes as he listens, stepping to the side of the hall. Through all the ambient noise of the music school, he can hear a clear call and response bouncing between their offices. He glances up at Anathema, smiling. 

Hearing movement in one of their offices, Adam quickly turns and walks away. Anathema follows, not keen on being caught eavesdropping. 

“What was up with that?” asks Adam.

“I’m not sure,” Anathema replies.

“Last I knew, they hated each other.”

“Not anymore, I suppose,” says Anathema.

They part ways a moment later, and Adam hurries home to tell Brian what he just heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is folks. you get it a day early bc I finished it and Marisela wanted me to post early. I hope y'all like it!! I love you all!!


	5. You Keep Telling Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Motive by Elsiane!!!
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> A million thanks to Dio for their patience this week and for being a lovely and perfect beta, and to my husband for their patience and encouragement and input for this chapter.

Back in the flat, Adam and Brian sit at the kitchen table, pointedly not doing their homework. Adam has just finished describing what he and Anathema heard while standing between Crowley and Aziraphale’s offices earlier that day.

“Call and response?” says Brian. “Like out of some romance movie?” 

“Yeah,” answers Adam. 

“That— that’s not even subtle.”

“I know!”

“Are they, like, a thing?”

“I dunno. I thought ‘Zira _hated_ Crowley, too,” says Adam, deep in thought. “I mean, we’ve all seen the looks he used to give him. Pretty obvious.”

“I don’t even know them, and I’d say they’ve got something between them,” calls Pepper through the open door of her room. 

Adam chuckles. “Maybe they do.”

“You should ask,” Brian says, grinning.

“Hell no!” says Adam.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if Crowley was gay too. What with those boots an’ all.”

With that, they fall silent. Adam thinks about their relationship for a few moments longer, wondering if his professors really do have something between them. Eventually, however, the thought slips from his mind and he goes about his day.

Later that night, his mind returns to it, however, and he sends a text to Anathema:

_Do you think Zira and Crowley are dating?_

To which she replies:

_Unsure. Hadn’t thought about that._

Adam puts the matter aside and goes to sleep.

——

Crowley and Aziraphale fall once more into the routine of engaging in their call and response. Over time, they develop a steady rhythm, and Aziraphale’s indifference toward Crowley turns into friendship. Their terse greetings become friendly conversations, which, in turn, become lunches spent in one of their offices. 

Their friendship blossoms, and every time they pass in the halls, Aziraphale’s smile gets a little brighter and a little more genuine. Each one is a fan to the gentle flame growing in Crowley’s chest for the man. Crowley knows this will only come back to bite him, but he also knows there is nothing he can do to stop it, so he leans into it. He chooses not to fan the flame with unnecessary fantasies, but he does let himself hope that Aziraphale has finally been given the space to come into his own. Whether or not their relationship can ever be as it was before, he at least wants that particular peace for Aziraphale.

November advances, and it is not long before Crowley and Aziraphale’s friendship begins to extend beyond the St. Basil campus. Crowley knows Aziraphale’s weaknesses well, so he knows Aziraphale will say yes when he knocks lightly on his doorframe and pokes his head inside. 

“Done early. Sushi?”

Aziraphale looks up from his computer and a smile spreads across his face. “Always.” He packs up his things, and they make their way downstairs.

Crowley leads Aziraphale to the Bentley, and they get in. They drive in comfortable silence, and Crowley lets his mind wander. He has accepted by now that he has begun to fall for Aziraphale again, and he isn’t quite sure how to deal with that. He decides to try to let things progress naturally, and hope for the best, whatever that may be. In any case, Aziraphale’s continued receptiveness to their strengthening friendship has given him more and more confidence, but he does his best to move slowly nonetheless. No matter how things turn out in the end, he doesn’t want to fuck it up this time.

A few minutes later, Crowley screeches to a stop in the parking lot of Aziraphale’s favorite sushi restaurant. It’s the first time he himself has been there, but he has heard Aziraphale mention it several times in the short time they have been on truly friendly terms.

“You know, Crowley, I’m a bit surprised you suggested this. I didn’t think you liked sushi.” Aziraphale’s words startle Crowley from his thoughts as they get out of the car. 

“I don’t dislike it,” he replies. “And I know you like it.” 

“Well, I appreciate it. I can help you find something you’ll like.” 

They are seated quickly, and Crowley takes note of how many of the staff Aziraphale greets, finding it quite endearing that he has clearly been here so many times that he is universally well-liked by the staff.

Crowley spends their meal doing his best to be just the right amount of obvious about his interest in Aziraphale. His wholesome and genuine enthusiasm as he helps Crowley choose a sushi roll makes it quite difficult, but somehow, he manages.

——

Aziraphale, for his part, is doing his best not to become too proud of his budding friendship with Crowley, as he knows that it is counterintuitive to be prideful over being nice to someone. At the same time, however, he feels as if he should be allowed some degree of satisfaction with himself, given how difficult it has been to overcome the lingering trauma of what happened between them and to them, even though it was so long ago. In the end, he allows himself to be happy that he has been able to start replacing his unpleasant memories with happier ones. 

Crowley finishes his sushi well before Aziraphale, despite the former's distinct lack of experience with chopsticks. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s eyes on him as he eats, and looks up to meet his eyes.

“Well?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well what?” 

“Did I choose well?”

“Oh, the sushi? Yes, I rather liked it.”

There is a short silence as Aziraphale finishes eating. When he is done, he can tell that Crowley’s eyes have not moved from him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” asks Crowley. 

“I— I don’t know. Just— looking.”

Aziraphale, of course, is blissfully unaware of Crowley’s growing feelings for him. Crowley’s gaze does not unnerve him as much as it would have otherwise. 

——

Over the course of the first few weeks of November, gossip about the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship picks up once more. Anathema is not immune to it, and the more she hears, the more curious she becomes.

One afternoon in mid November she sees something that pushes her curiosity over the edge. She is walking out of the music building on her way home from class, when she sees Aziraphale and Crowley leaving the building. This is the first time she has seen them together with her own two eyes, though she has heard rumors that they have been spending more time together. She thinks back to Adam’s text, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t been too far off.

Anathema stops and watches them walk past her. They are walking just close enough together to arouse questions in her mind about the nature of their relationship. Crowley opens the passenger’s side door of some sort of antique-looking car for Aziraphale and then climbs into the driver’s seat. Uncharacteristically chivalrous of him, she muses. The car backs out, and as Anathema watches them drive away, she wonders vaguely where they are going.

As Anathema walks away, her mind is doing gymnastics trying to figure out exactly what Crowley and Aziraphale are doing. Clearly, Aziraphale has worked through whatever issue he had with Crowley at the start of the semester, and they have developed some sort of friendship. Anathema has always assumed Aziraphale is gay, but she realizes now that she has never heard him say anything about it at all. She is fairly certain Crowley isn’t straight, but in all honesty, she knows she is making that judgement based almost exclusively on his willingness to wear snakeskin boots in public. 

Anathema thinks about this off and on for the remainder of her day, and later sends a text to Adam about it:

_Saw Zira leaving campus with Crowley earlier._

Adam responds only with emojis of eyeballs and a magnifying glass, and she chuckles. Later, she resolves to just ask Aziraphale about it. It would be much simpler than sitting and thinking about it, she reasons, and she is fairly certain that she has become close enough to Aziraphale that he will not react negatively to her question. 

Naturally, she is dead wrong.

——

Aziraphale is having an excellent day so far. He has been feeling much better in general lately, having begrudgingly accepted that harboring so much anger toward Crowley really was putting unnecessary stress on him. He manages to make it through his whole morning routine and his first lecture before it all comes crashing down around him.

Sitting in his office, Aziraphale eats his lunch contentedly. His and Crowley’s schedules don’t match up very well on this particular day of the week, so they can’t eat together, as has become the norm. However, he is fairly certain that later in the afternoon, Crowley will return to his office, and they will engage in their comfortable routine of playing music to each other. Aziraphale has come to deeply appreciate this ritual of theirs, finding it to be akin to meditation, but less lonely. He loves the feeling of being in such perfect harmony with someone that their improvisation flows as naturally as it does between him and Crowley. 

Aziraphale deliberately does not think about why he feels this way. He has gotten very good at not thinking about it. So good, in fact, that he doesn’t even think about how he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. 

When Anathema pokes her head into his doorway, Aziraphale smiles heartily. He can see how much less stressed she has been lately, and it warms his heart. 

“Hey, Aziraphale. I can’t stay for long, but I’ve got a sort of nosy question,” says Anathema. “Okay, well, really nosy.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m an open book.”

Anathema smiles and steps fully into Aziraphale’s office. She pauses for a moment, before saying, “I heard your sort of… call and response thing with Crowley the other day. It sounded really cool.”

Aziraphale chuckles, wondering vaguely where Anathema is going with this. “Thank you,” he says, unsure how else to respond.

“Are you guys together?” she blurts. “Or like— fucking or something?”

_Fuck._

Panic floods Aziraphale’s gut. Is that really how this has been coming across to other people? If Anathema thinks that, who else does? How long have people been saying these things about him?

Questions flood Aziraphale’s mind as the realization that rumors about his sexuality have been flying crashes down on him. His heart rate picks up and his palms feel sweaty.

“Not at all. I’m not gay,” Aziraphale snaps. He can see in Anathema’s expression that she has picked up on his sudden change of tone, but he is too busy panicking to care—

_They think I’m gay they think I’m gay they think—_

“Th— that’s not a bad thing—” says Anathema, clearly confused and definitely backpedaling. She seems to have realized that this was probably a bad idea.

_They think they think they think I’m gay think I’m gay think I’m gay gay gay gay not gay not gay not gay I’m not a faggot—_

Aziraphale can hear the pinched sound in his voice as he replies, “Please, Anathema. Just go.” 

“Aziraphale—”

“Go!”

Anathema hurriedly grabs her things and all but sprints out of Aziraphale’s office. 

Aziraphale stands and shuts the door, trying not to slam it, and tapes a piece of paper over the square window in it. Once he is fully concealed, he returns to his desk and does his best to fend off a panic attack. His hands are shaking so he clasps them so hard that his knuckles go white. 

Time passes without meaning to him as he sits at his desk, motionless. Some undetermined amount of time later, the sound of a violin jolts him from his trance-like state. It is a sharp reminder that Crowley still exists and that a decent portion of the music school thinks he is in a relationship with him. 

Suddenly angry, Aziraphale storms to his piano and plays something. Anything. As long as it drowns out the violin, he doesn’t care. He hears Crowley echo him in an attempt to start their call and response, and he freezes. For a moment he sits there, unsure what to do. Feeling panic creep back up his spine, he grabs his things and leaves as quickly as he can manage. 

He must have closed his office door too loudly, because just moments after it shuts, he hears another office door open and close, and suddenly Crowley is beside him.

“‘Zira,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale speeds up.

“Aziraphale?”

He speeds up again, shaking his head.

“Aziraphale— what the hell is wrong with you?!”

Aziraphale whips around to face Crowley. “I’m perfectly _fine_ , thank you.”

“What the fuck did I do to _you_?” Crowley demands. 

Aziraphale falters in his fury. “I— nothing.” He looks away in shame. 

“Aziraphale, please, just tell me what’s wrong,” says Crowley. “We used to be so close, and I thought we were going to be like that ag—”

“That’s just the problem!”

“Er— what?”

Aziraphale sighs sharply. “People— rumors are going around that we’re, ah— together.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Crowley says, one eyebrow raised. 

“Of course it is!”

“W— why?”

“You know full well why, _Anthony_.”

“Aziraphale… are— are you not out?” 

Aziraphale’s glare all but threatens violence. “Out of what?” he growls. He meets Crowley’s eyes, tacitly warning him to choose his words wisely. 

Crowley, of course, does no such thing. 

Instead, he simply replies, “Of the closet. As gay.”

It may be a poor choice on Crowley’s part, but perhaps it needs to be said.

At last, the panic attack that has been lurking just beneath Aziraphale’s conscious mind since his conversation with Anathema bursts forth. It rips violently through his mind and his body, and his legs suddenly feel much less supportive of his weight than they should be. 

“I need to go,” Aziraphale says abruptly, turning on his heel and hurrying back toward his office. 

He manages to make it to his office before he fully loses control. He is vaguely aware that Crowley is trying to help him, but that’s the last thing he wants right now. He manages to force out a few words in an attempt to dissuade Crowley from trying to help any more. 

Once his office door is closed, Aziraphale stands with his back against it. He stands there for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut and his breathing ragged. He intends to stand here for as long as it takes to calm down, but he quickly realizes that his legs are becoming shakier by the second. 

He opens his eyes and makes his way to his desk chair, slumping into it. He slips in and out of consciousness, dangerously close to blacking out entirely. The more he thinks, the less he can process and everything is spinning spinning spinning, and he hasn’t had a panic attack this bad since—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy folks. My apologies for this being a whole day late, especially when the last one came so early. This has been a really rough week for me in general, between forgetting my medicine multiple days in a row (no motivation), not getting the job I interviewed for (grumpy), and a few very frustrating shifts at my current job (tired). I’m definitely going to do my best to catch up for the next chapter!!
> 
> also sorry it’s so short.
> 
> I love you all!!


	6. I've Got Nothing Left Inside of My Chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: HOMOPHOBIA, HOMOPHOBIC VIOLENCE, HOMPHOBIC SLURS, NSFW CONTENT, SUICIDAL IDEATION
> 
> CONTENT WARNING FOR PARTICULARLY GRAPHIC SCENE IS EMBEDDED IN THE CHAPTER. A SUMMARY OF THE GRAPHIC SCENE IS AVAILABLE IN THE END NOTES.
> 
> Please take care of yourself, folks!!! I love you all!!!!!!
> 
> Chapter title this time around is from All Alright by Fun!!
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Thank you a million times to Dio, the most patient and wonderful beta in the world, and also to Dean and Mar, whose encouragement kept me going even when I didn't have my meds for five days.

_Roughly 20 years earlier_

When Anthony Crowley transfers universities in the middle of his second year, he does not expect to meet an angel. But the world moves in mysterious ways, and he cannot seem to stop running into a particular blonde with a singularly stunning smile. Eventually, he gives in and greets him, and immediately finds himself absolutely head over heels for those obnoxiously beautiful blue eyes.

Before long, Anthony learns that the blonde’s name is Aziraphale. A strange name, he thinks, but it only it only intrigues him further. He can tell right off the bat that Aziraphale is gay, but he gets the sense that Aziraphale himself hasn’t figured that out just yet. He doesn’t mind that so much, though. Everyone comes to these realizations at their own pace.

It is a while before Anthony and Aziraphale become regular fixtures in each other’s lives. By the time Anthony arrives at the university, Aziraphale has an established social group filled with mostly other pianists and theorists. Anthony carves out space for himself among the violinists, and his and Aziraphale’s paths rarely cross. When they do happen to see one another, they exchange the usual pleasantries, but not much else.

Near the end of Anthony’s first semester at the university, he finds himself in the music building late at night. He generally tries not to be there too late, but as juries approach, he has realized that he needs some extra time in the practice room. That, and his instructor is up his ass about not practicing enough. Again. And he has a lesson tomorrow. Not a great combination, overall.

He finally wraps up around two. As he exits his practice room, the door across the hall from his opens as well, and out walks Aziraphale. Even in the middle of the night, he still maintains a sort of glow that draws Anthony toward him like a moth to a flame, and Anthony is completely caught off guard. Aziraphale waves. Really? Waving? How fucking cute. God damn.

 _Fuck_. He should say something.

“You don’t seem the type for late night practicing,” says Anthony.

Not his best move.

Aziraphale smiles warmly. “I’m here late quite often, actually.”

Anthony, a bit embarrassed, replies, “I guess you don’t seem the night owl type, is all.”

“I suppose I don’t,” says Aziraphale still smiling. He gestures to Anthony’s violin. “Do you need to put your instrument away?”

“Ah— yeah, I do, actually,” says Anthony. “Er— walk with me?”

“My pleasure,” says Aziraphale, and they fall into step next to each other. “Why are you here so late tonight?” he asks.

“Oh, the usual cramming. Didn’t practice enough, got a lesson tomorrow, that sort of thing,” says Anthony. “I mostly practice during the day.”

“I generally like to practice at night,” Aziraphale replies.

“Any particular reason?”

“I find that things flow more easily at night,” says Aziraphle. “I’m not sure why. Maybe something about the calm. It’s less stressful when the building is empty and quiet. More peaceful.”

They reach the instrument lockers and Anthony puts his violin away. Aziraphale stands to the side, leaning gently against the locker next to his.

“You don’t have to wait for me, you know. I don’t want to keep you here later than you need to be.”

“You’re not keeping me, I’m staying because I want to,” replies Aziraphale. “Besides, I’m often here late. You, on the other hand, are not. I’m staying so I can walk you home.”

“Walk me home?” An amused smile plays across Crowley’s face. “Do I look like I need to be walked home?”

Aziraphale falters a bit. “N— no, it’s just that, well—” he stammers. “Oh, I just don’t want to leave you to walk home alone in the dark, especially if you’re not accustomed to it!”

“That’s very chivalrous of you.”

“I— well, I try to be a gentlem—”

“Isn’t one usually chivalrous toward women, though?” says Crowley, smiling mischievously. He closes his locker and turns to leave.

“Well, I suppose—”

“If you’re going to walk me home, best get about it, hm?” says Crowley, glancing back at Aziraphale, who hurries toward him.

They walk in comfortable silence for a moment, crossing the threshold of the building into a mild May night.

“How far off do you live?” asks Aziraphale, glancing over at Crowley.

“Oh, not far. Just up Salem street.”

“Oh, I do as well, actually,” Aziraphale replies. “Maybe we’re close to each other.”

They fall into silence once more, but this time, Anthony breaks it.

“You know, I still wouldn’t peg you for a night owl, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Things aren’t always what they seem, are they, Anthony?” He casts him a friendly, but pointed, glance.

Anthony smiles, looking down at his shoes. A moment later, they round the corner onto Salem street.

“Oh, my flat is just a block up, as a matter of fact,” says Aziraphale.

“Mine’s three blocks up,” replies Anthony. “I’ll drop you off.” Aziraphale opens his mouth, as if to reply, but Anthony continues, “Can’t have you out walking by yourself in the dark, can we, hm?” He smiles again. “Which one’s yours?”

“Number 333, just up there,” says Aziraphale, and a moment later, they come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs to his porch.

“Well, we seem to have gotten you here safely,” says Anthony. “Have a good night.”

“You too, Anth— wait just a minute!” says Aziraphale indignantly. “I was the one walking you home, not the other way round!”

“I suppose you were,” replies Anthony, “and yet, here we are.” He winks, and then he is on his way, leaving a stunned Aziraphale standing on his front porch steps.

After that night, Anthony makes a point of practicing late at night, walking Aziraphale home nearly every night for the remainder of the semester. Their walks take longer and longer each evening, as they introduce detour after detour, just so they don’t have to stop talking. In time, they grow very close, and Anthony begins to wonder if there might be something deeper than friendliness in the way Aziraphale looks at him. Whenever his thoughts stray in that direction, he reminds himself that he may very well be projecting. Better not to set himself up to be let down.

Sometimes, Anthony finishes practicing before Aziraphale, so he leans against the wall, listening to him play. One such night, just after midnight, Crowley stands outside the door of Aziraphale’s practice room. Suddenly, the door opens, startling him, and Aziraphale pokes his head through the doorway.

“You can come in, you know.” Aziraphale opens the door wider, allowing Anthony entry into the cramped practice room.

“How did you know I was out here?” asks Anthony.

“I just knew.” Aziraphale gives him a mischievous smile. “Coming in?”

Anthony walks inside and slides down the wall into a sitting position. Aziraphale resumes playing, and Anthony watches.

God, he’s so fucking beautiful. Anthony quickly realizes that he is in way over his head. He has never been a particularly faith-minded individual, but if anything could make him a believer, this would be it: the way Aziraphale’s flyaway curls ghost over his forehead, the look of concentration on his face—not to mention his playing. Anthony has always thought the piano to be a bit overrated, but as he listens to Aziraphale play, he understands why it is so universally loved. As he gazes at Aziraphale, he stops playing and meets Anthony’s eyes. For a moment, they sit in silence, looking past each other’s eyes and into what hides behind.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” says Aziraphale softly.

Anthony remains silent for a beat. He has a choice to make: should he tell Aziraphale exactly why he is looking at him like that, or play it off and move on?

Risk it. Always risk it.

“Because you’re beautiful,” he blurts. He curses himself internally for his tactlessness.

“I— er,” Aziraphale stutters, redness creeping up his pale cheeks. “I’m not sure what you mean.” He looks away, and Anthony notices that he is fiddling nervously with something in his pocket.

“Er— I mean— well, ah, I—” This is not going well. “I mean just that!” Anthony exclaims, forcing past his stammering. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale looks at his hands.

Oh fuck. Anthony must have misinterpreted something somewhere along the line. Time to backpedal, and fast. “It— it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” he adds.

“No, no— it’s not that,” says Aziraphale. “I just— I want to feel the same. I do feel the same, I think. I don’t know.” He pauses, pulling the thing he is fiddling with out of his pocket and into his lap. “It’s just that, well— it’s a sin. But I don’t know if I believe that.”

A sin? Anthony looks closer at what Aziraphale is fidgeting with. A rosary. Oh. Suddenly, all the pieces fall into place, and Anthony understands, to some extent, the mental roadblock Aziraphale is facing.

“You don’t have to know,” says Anthony, desperate to provide some sort of comfort.

“I’m not sure if I want to,” Aziraphale whispers, his eyes wide. One by one, he pulls each bead through his fingers, as if he is praying the rosary. For all Anthony knows, he could be. He isn’t really sure how these things work. Aziraphale stares blankly at the keyboard of the piano, and Anthony can see in his eyes that he is not at all present in the moment—he’s dissociating. Pretty hard, from the looks of it.

Anthony gets up from the floor and sits next to Aziraphale on the piano bench. “Hey,” he says gently, leaning into Aziraphale’s field of vision. “Can I touch you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes snap toward Anthony, and he seems to have been jerked back into the moment.

“Just your hand,” Anthony adds hastily, realizing how his question could be misinterpreted.

Aziraphale nods almost imperceptibly, and Anthony takes his hand, gently pulling his rosary away. He places it carefully on top of the piano, and holds each of Aziraphale’s hands in his own.

“You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” he asks. “Not about me specifically, just in general.”

Aziraphale nods again. Anthony turns one of his hands over and begins tracing up and down each finger in an attempt to keep Aziraphale grounded.

“You know that whole thing about it being a sin is bullshit, right?” Anthony continues.

Tears sting at Aziraphale’s eyes, and he takes a ragged breath in. “I never knew that I— not til I met you.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “I want to know that. I want to believe it so badly. I’m just so afraid.”

“Fuck that,” says Anthony. “What are you afraid of?”

Aziraphale looks up, eyes wide in terror. Anthony stops tracing his fingers, startled by the intensity of the fear he sees.

“It’s bullshit, Aziraphale,” Anthony whispers. “Total bullshit. Stuff they tell you to try and keep you from being different than them.”

Aziraphale says nothing, and Anthony is beginning to get desperate. He’s never dealt with anything quite like this before—he didn’t grow up with any heavily repressed Catholic friends, as far as he knows.

“Look— you didn’t choose this, did you?”

“I— I don’t know.”

“At what point did you decide to like men?”

“I don’t like— I’m not—” Aziraphale cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t. I didn’t choose this.”

“No one does,” says Anthony, “and why would your god make someone like this, and then punish them for it?”

“I don’t know!” says Aziraphale. “Do you think I’ve never thought of that before?”

“Then why don’t you believe it? The logic is there, and you just said you want to believe it. What’s stopping you?”

Aziraphale shrugs.

“Then that’s that. If you want to believe something, you can. Not that it’ll be easy. But you can.” Anthony pauses. “If you want to do something, then just do it.” Aziraphale looks up. “For example,” Anthony adds, “I want to kiss you.”

Aziraphale looks at him, fear shining in his teary eyes. He swallows hard, and whispers, “Then do it.”

So Anthony does.

——

Their first kiss seems to open a sort of floodgate inside Aziraphale—everything he has been shoving down and ignoring for nineteen years comes bubbling up to the surface. Over the weeks that follow, he experiences a lot of very confusing emotions, and, being an individual who feels things to the max at all times, he has a lot of trouble dealing with them. Despite this onslaught, he is able to discern and categorize most of what he feels.

First and foremost, he is overcome with guilt. His gut reaction is guilt to have betrayed his parents, his upbringing, and ostensibly his god in admitting to, and acting upon, his sinful attraction. This guilt leads him to be ashamed that he liked it so much. His natural reaction to this guilt is rebellion—why should he feel guilty for something he can’t even control? Naturally, this causes him to question whether or not he actually _can_ control it, even though he already knows the answer to that. Then, he is overcome with a strong desire to keep doing it, because if it’s really _that_ bad, then why do Anthony’s lips pressing against his make him suddenly feel like everything is clicking into place? This thought process is vicious and circular, and it is very difficult for him to escape from it and enjoy even Anthony’s company, much less physical affection from him.

In truth, after their first kiss, it takes Aziraphale so long to process his feelings on the matter that Anthony has almost begun to move on and assume that Aziraphale is bafflingly straight, and therefore not interested in him. This upsets Anthony quite a bit at first, but when a pleasantly tipsy Aziraphale shows up at the front door of his flat after three days of utter silence, he is quickly reminded that he is a huge softy (a truth which irks him greatly when he is not busy fawning over Aziraphale).

Anthony invites Aziraphale in, and it is not long before he realizes that Aziraphale is a bit past “pleasantly tipsy.” He has clearly done quite a bit of drinking already, and he babbles for a while about his thoughts concerning kissing Anthony for the first time. It is not long before they are kissing once more, and it is clear to Anthony (though not perhaps Aziraphale) that the only reason Aziraphale is okay with this happening again is because he is absolutely plastered.

As the evening advances, Aziraphale begins to sober up and the reality of the fact that he has deliberately kissed a man (the same man, no less) two whole times now dawns upon his face. Anthony can see the switch flip in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he braces himself for the inevitable awkward conversation as Aziraphale pulls away.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, it’s just—” Aziraphale trails off.

“What’s wrong, Aziraphale?”

“I’m not sure, I just—” he says, cutting himself off. Anthony can see anxiety brewing behind his eyes, and becomes slightly worried.

“You liked it quite a lot last time, from what I could tell,” says Anthony, probing for what the issue is.

Aziraphale pauses a moment before answering, “Maybe, but I’ve had time to process it now.”

Anthony’s brows furrow, but he tries to remain patient. “Do you want to stop?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” says Aziraphale. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” replies Anthony. “Don’t be.”

In short, now that Aziraphale has had time to process his and Anthony’s first kiss, he has realized that he is not, in fact, even remotely okay with the fact that he is exclusively attracted to men, and he has deliberately chosen to deal with this by not dealing with it, as he has done for his whole life. He has never known any other way of dealing with this particular issue; why should he be expected to change now?

Time passes, and neither of them moves home for the summer that year. They spend increasing amounts of time together, and slowly but surely, the line between friendship and Something Else becomes more and more blurred. Eventually, it is erased altogether. Aziraphale never admits this directly, however, as he is still grappling with the baggage that comes with a repressive Catholic upbringing. Of course, perhaps due to said Catholic upbringing, he does not reach that point without a great deal of wine.

Over the summer and the first semester of the next academic year, Aziraphale gets ever closer to being through with the part of his life where he is forced to grapple with his identity, and inches nearer to the part of his life where he can be confident in it. Alcohol induced or not, Anthony is endlessly proud of him for this, and is eternally grateful that he has gotten to be there to witness it, and that he has been able to help Aziraphale come into his own in whatever way he can.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

——

“So, Anthony, tell me again why you aren’t able to spend Christmas with your family?” asks Mrs. Church. “Aziraphale never did tell us why.”

She sits perched on the foremost eight or so inches of a plump but well-loved couch. Anthony, having never really had much respect for the traditional use of furniture, lounges sideways in an armchair, his long legs dangling over the arm of it. No one in the room is quite sure how he ended up that way, as when he sat down, he did so as one usually does in an armchair. But, nonetheless, he’s like this now, and he’s not going to reposition just because he’s in someone else’s house.

“Oh, a lot of reasons,” he answers nonchalantly. “Money problems, fighting, the usual.”

Mrs. Church looks vaguely concerned. Anthony does not seem bothered enough about not being with his family for Christmas as she would generally expect. She glances at Aziraphale, who is occupying his favorite spot at the other end of the couch. He shrugs.

“Well— it’s a good thing you have Aziraphale, then, isn’t it?” she says, doing her best not to sound alarmed at Anthony’s apparent familial problems. “At least you’ll be able to spend Christmas with a family, even if it’s not your family.”

“I’ve always considered found family more important than blood relationships, anyway,” replies Crowley, knowing fully that this won’t go over terribly well with the elder Churches.

“Well, as the Lord tells us, blood is thicker than water,” Mr. Church says from his standard place in his chair. His Chair. Nobody sits in Mr. Church’s Chair except Mr. Church.

Well, sometimes the cat does, but only when Mr. Church isn’t around to catch her there. There has never been a spoken rule that the Chair is explicitly his, but, somehow, everyone knows.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, actually,” says Anthony lazily. He knows he is pushing it, but when the opportunity to annoy conservative Christians presents itself, he can rarely restrain himself from partaking.

“Well, that doesn’t make the water of the womb insignificant,” clips Mrs. Church, and with that, the conversation is over.

Anthony glances at Aziraphale. He looks slightly stressed to have had to witness this exchange. He, unlike Anthony, knows better than to challenge his parents on Biblical points, and deliberately does not chime in.

Aziraphale’s parents have, thus far, assumed that he does this out of a desire not to oppose Anthony on the matter, though they do wish that he would speak up a bit in their defense. Anthony has a particularly strong personality, and they have come to worry that their mild-mannered son will be treated like a doormat by yet another strong-willed friend, like he has countless times before.

In reality, the reason for Aziraphale’s silence is very different. Anthony does not, as his parents seem to believe, treat him like a stepping stone. In fact, things are just the opposite. Though Anthony is a bit blunt, and seems to enjoy being antagonistic with people he believes are wrong, he has never treated Aziraphale with anything but profound respect and kindness. Aziraphale has noticed this, and is deeply flattered by it. He rather likes the attention, as a matter of fact. He’s found that it’s nice to receive attention from someone who actually cares about him, rather than from people who view him as a stepping stone, or those who seek to govern his life. Not that his parents don’t care about him, but their care is expressed in a way that may be better suited to individuals who are a bit younger, or perhaps a bit more out of control, than he is. Aziraphale knows this, and he tries to be gracious about it, but despite his best efforts, he gets exasperated sometimes.

Not to mention, it’s pretty hard to hide from overbearing Catholic parents such as his that you’re fucking your boyfriend in a way that is very, very not straight.

Boyfriend? Hmm. Definitely not officially, but they’re definitely more than friends. Aziraphale decides to revisit that particular loose end at a later date.

And it’s not like they’ve gone, you know. _All the way_. At least not yet. “Fucking” is more of a ceremonial term, in this case. And they only did it once. Just to clear the air. Aziraphale isn’t sure how to feel about the possibility of _actually_ fucking yet, anyway. All he knows is that what they _did_ do felt good, and he very much wants to keep doing it.

Well, that’s not true. He definitely wants to _actually_ fuck. Or, at least, he’s pretty sure he does. He’s just afraid that God will smite him on the spot if he ever dares to.

Sometimes he feels a bit silly that he’s nearly 21, and still _technically_ a virgin. He knows that this is a good thing, at least per Catholic doctrine, but he still feels a bit ashamed of it. This, naturally, comes into direct conflict with his shame over his desire to be absolutely railed, which, in turn, yields itself to shame over _feeling_ ashamed, and thus, a vicious cycle is formed.

Not that he knows if he’d actually _like_ being railed. He’s still grappling with that. But, confused or not, he longs for that feeling of closeness with another person, and that’s the first place his mind always goes.

Aziraphale knows that he is flirting with disaster by bringing Anthony to his parents’ house. He has never hidden from him how strict his parents are, but he is nevertheless filled with anxiety that something will be let slip, and that this delicate balance he has worked so carefully to build and maintain will come crashing down around him.

The truth is, Aziraphale really didn’t put much thought into inviting him. There they were one day, eating lunch or something (Aziraphale isn’t quite sure on the details), and Anthony was complaining about his family being a disaster and how he didn’t really want to go home for Christmas, and damn Aziraphale’s big heart, because before he even began to consider the many reasons it might be a bad idea, he had invited Anthony to spend the holidays with him and his parents. But here they are now, and there’s nothing that can be done about it. And, if he’s being honest, he’s quite glad to have Anthony here, anyway.

——

Later that night, Anthony and Aziraphale sit together in Aziraphale’s bedroom. Anthony is laying spread-eagle across the foot of the bed, and Aziraphale sits cross-legged, leaning against the headboard with a book in his hands. The green glow of the digital clock on Aziraphale’s nightstand declares that it is just after eleven.

They sit in comfortable silence for some time, before Anthony speaks.

“Sorry I got your parents all worked up earlier.”

Aziraphale, startled from his reading, looks up. “Hm? Oh, they’ll get over it.”

There is a brief silence.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for letting me come here.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Thank my parents. It’s their house.”

“Well— yes, obviously. But still. I’m here for you, not them.”

A smile tugs at Aziraphale’s lips. He puts down his book and lays next to Anthony, his fingers entwined across his stomach. He looks up at the blank expanse of his ceiling, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Anthony’s head turn toward him.

“I’m glad you’re here, Anthony,” Aziraphale says.

Anthony rolls onto his side to face him, and Aziraphale can feel his eyes on him. He rolls over, mirroring Anthony. Their faces are close enough that Aziraphale can feel Anthony’s breath on his lips.

“Better here with you than at my dad’s house,” Anthony says, grinning.

Good _God_ , his smile is so _fucking_ cute. Aziraphale feels warmth creeping up his cheeks, and is immediately embarrassed of it.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Anthony’s grin turns into a friendly smirk. “Embarrassed?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Why do you insist upon calling me that?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Aziraphale sighs. “You have a nice smile.”

“Do I now?” says Anthony. “Is that why you’re embarrassed?”

“You know full well how I feel about you, Anthony!” Aziraphale huffs, but his smile betrays his tone.

“Doesn’t change that you’re embarrassed, angel.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes once more.

“You’re so cute when you’re blushing.”

If any part of Aziraphale’s face was not on fire before Anthony said that, it certainly is now. Before he knows it, Anthony’s lips are on his own, and they’re much softer than one might expect given how angular his face is. This is not the first time they have kissed, but this is only the second time Aziraphale has been sober for it. He isn’t totally sure how he feels about it, but he doesn’t stop just yet, either.

After a moment, Aziraphale pulls away, and Anthony looks at him, concern in his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“I— I’m fine,” says Aziraphale, looking away.

“Don’t lie, Aziraphale. You’re no good at it.”

“It’s just— I’ve never done this sober. Except the first time, I suppose, but that only went so far.” He laughs nervously.

“Well, do you want to keep going?”

“I think so.”

“Then kiss me.”

So he does. It doesn’t take long for Aziraphale to decide once and for all that this is better when he’s not drunk. He rolls over, straddling Anthony’s hips.

Aziraphale does not think very hard about what happens next. He lets Anthony lead, following with enthusiasm. He grinds against Anthony’s growing bulge, first gently and thenwith increasing urgency, and he gasps lightly when he feels Anthony’s fingers slide past the waistband of his boxers.

“Wait,” Anthony says, slipping his fingers out of Aziraphale’s pants. “Is this okay? At your parents’ house and all?”

“Yes. God, yes,” replies Aziraphale breathlessly. “I think they’ve gone to bed, anyway.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” says Crowley. He pulls Aziraphale back down toward him.

They continue, losing track of time. Tonight they go further than they ever have before, and it is the night Aziraphale learns what it’s like to be filled. He has never felt this close to another person, physically or emotionally, and as Anthony thrusts into him, he realizes that nothing has ever felt so _right_. He knows he isn’t even supposed to do this, much less like it this much, but right now, he doesn’t care. And let’s be honest, isn’t God supposed to smite people who do things He doesn’t like?

God does not smite them tonight.

Aziraphale feels validated by this, and takes it to mean that it being gay and acting on it may not be as bad as his parents would have him think.

Unfortunately, this validation does not last very long.

**CONTENT WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF HOMOPHOBIC VIOLENCE & HOMOPHOBIC SLURS (summary in end notes)**

Anthony is deep inside Aziraphale, who is in complete bliss as he rides him, one hand on the headboard and the other on his own cock.

Then, there is a faint click, a creak, and a quiet, “Aziraph— oh.”

Aziraphale throws a glance over his shoulder and sees his mother disappearing from his doorway. He removes himself from Anthony, frantically feeling around for his boxers and suddenly he can’t see he can’t see he can’t see—

“AZIRAPHALE.”

He whirls around and his eyes meet his father’s as he barges into Aziraphale’s room. Aziraphale yanks his boxers the rest of the way up his legs as he tumbles out of bed. He has barely regained his footing when he feels a hand grab him roughly by the throat, and his father’s voice growls in his ear:

“I’ll deal with you later.”

And with that, Aziraphale is all but thrown aside. Mr. Church makes a beeline for the bed, where Anthony still lays, paralyzed in horror.

“You have your dick in my son?”

Anthony is silent. He glances toward Aziraphale, who is sitting on the floor where he was cast aside, white as a sheet.

“Well? Did you?”

Silence.

“Answer me!” Mr. Church yells, advancing upon Anthony. “You _disgusting_ creature!”

“So fucking what if I did?” Anthony spits.

Mr. Church’s eyes darken. “I’d say you’d better get the fuck out of my house.” He steps forward as Anthony stands to face him. “I’ll not have my son turned into some kind of fucking _faggot_ ,” he growls.

In the split second that follows, Aziraphale can see the switch flip in Anthony’s eyes as he goes from defensive to aggressive, and deals a rather impressive right hook straight into Mr. Church’s jaw.

This, of course, does not go over well with Mr. Church. His head snaps to the side and he cries out in pain, but as he turns back toward Anthony, he lunges forward. Anthony may have had surprise on his side when he threw the first punch, but in the end, Mr. Church is a much larger and much stronger man than he is, and he soon has Anthony by the neck, arms behind his back, pinned to the floor beside the bed.

“Get your faggot ass the fuck out of my house this instant, and maybe I _won’t_ snap your fucking neck,” he whispers into Anthony’s ear. Mr. Church lets go of his neck, and he coughs as air floods into his lungs. As soon as his arms are free, he staggers across the room to Aziraphale.

“Are you okay?” he says. “Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, looking past Anthony at Mr. Church, who looms behind him, livid. Aziraphale sees in his eyes that he is ready to strike, and he shoves Anthony to the side.

“Just go, Anthony!”

“Wait—”

“GO!”

Anthony grabs his clothes and flees, leaving behind all his other belongings. He does not see Aziraphale take the blow that was meant for him, and he does not see the beating that follows.

**END GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF HOMOPHOBIC VIOLENCE**

——

**CONTENT WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATION (no summary)**

Aziraphale does not sleep that night. Sobs wrack his bruised and torn body, and he can barely find it within him to pull himself from the floor to the bed. He loses track of time, but eventually he ceases crying.

He feels around himself gingerly, assessing the damage. At least one black eye, maybe two. Nose bleeding but intact. No broken bones, but definitely a bruised rib. Too many bruises to count on his chest and back. He should probably seek medical care, but it’s all he can do to keep from going to the medicine cabinet and downing every bottle of pills he can find, so he stays in bed. He survives the night, and the next morning, he gathers his belongings and drives back to his flat by the university. He and his father never have the same sort of relationship they used to, and they never talk about what happened that night, right up until the day Mr. Church dies.

**END SUICIDAL IDEATION**

——

Anthony returns to his flat that night. He doles out the cash for a late train back to the university and lays spread-eagle on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He lays there for a long time, motionless. He knows better than to try to call Aziraphale while he is still at his parents’ house, and his other friends are all still home for the holidays, so he has no one to keep him from slipping into vacant despair.

Before long, morning breaks. Neither Aziraphale or Anthony has slept, and they both ghost through the day, not really taking anything in or engaging with their surroundings. Neither of them cries.

After a few days, Aziraphale pulls himself together and gathers Anthony’s things—a mix of miscellaneous things he has left at his apartment over the last few months and the belongings he left at Aziraphale’s parents’ house. He packs them neatly into a box and walks the familiar route to Anthony’s flat. He intends to leave the box outside the door without a word, but, as luck would have it, Anthony walks out of his front door just as Aziraphale ascends the last step to the porch. They stand in awkward silence for a moment, and those few seconds feel like an eternity to both of them. Anthony uses the time to run his eyes up and down Aziraphale’s body, taking in the bruises on his face and arms, and realizes that a lot must have happened after he left.

Finally, Aziraphale breaks the silence. “Er— here,” he says, holding out the box. “Your things.”

Anthony does not move. “You could have called me.”

Aziraphale stares at him.

“Angel, please,” Anthony says, his voice almost breaking. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m not your angel, Anthony.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut. “Anthony— it means that what happened was a mistake.”

“You still could have called me!”

“You’re not my boyfriend! I don’t owe you anything!”

Anthony falls into stunned silence.

“Just take the box, Anthony. We’re done.” Aziraphale shoves the box into his hands and turns to leave. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, turning halfway back toward Anthony. “I think— I think it would be best if we didn’t see each other at all anymore.”

And with that, it ends.

——

Years later, Aziraphale will have a great deal of trouble remembering what happened after his mother walked into his room that night. He will, however, have horrific nightmares about it. He will wake up in a cold sweat, frantically feeling around his body to make sure there are no bruises. He will spend nearly twenty years in blunt denial that he ever looked at a man with lust, forcing himself into celibacy and telling himself it’s for the sake of holiness, rather than out of shame. He will do everything in his power to forget how _right_ it felt when Crowley kissed him, how quickly his body responded, the quivering ecstasy that consumed him as Anthony pressed into him for the first time.

Try as he might, however, he will never be able to forget. Somewhere far, far below his conscious mind, he knows that he loved Crowley, and that he loved how it felt to be with him that night. That part of him longs to feel what he felt that night, even just once more. It longs to love, and to be loved, the way he and Crowley had once loved each other. But that part of himself is buried under twenty years of shame and denial, and time does not heal all wounds. Aziraphale has done such a spectacular job of hiding that part of himself that, frankly, it would take nothing short of a miracle to uncover it.

Many years down the line, Aziraphale will come to understand that, inconvenient as it is, miracles are rarely instantaneous. He will also learn that, every now and then, they come in the form of a man he thought he had banished from his conscious mind—a man he once loved, and who he may yet come to love again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Graphic scene summary: Aziraphale is losing his virginity to Anthony when they are walked in on by his parents. Mr. Church threatens Anthony with physical violence and kicks him out of their house. Anthony punches him, and then attempts to check in with Aziraphale. Mr. Church goes to hit Anthony, but Aziraphale shoves him out of the way, yelling at him to leave. Mr. Church beats Aziraphale, injuring him fairly seriously._
> 
> okay folks, here it is. the long awaited back story chapter. this one was actually pretty taxing to write, at least emotionally, so I really do sincerely apologize for the long wait. I also ran out of my medicine for five days, which made it really difficult to get much done, which is why I decided to take an extra week with this chapter. in exchange, you get a slightly longer chapter this time around.
> 
> from here on out I'm going to do my best not to go five days without my medicine so I can get back on track with my weekly chapters. with luck and some hard work I should have chapter 7 for you next sunday (yes I know it's currently monday but pls just let me live bc first of all I haven't gone to sleep yet so it doesn't count and second of all I'm so tired and I worked this evening so I didn't even get home to finish up the chapter til almost 1am) anyway, thank you all for your patience and I love you all so much!! Thank you for reading!!!!


	7. Hiding from the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Snow by Ricky Montgomery! It's a gorgeous song and I literally can't stop listening to it right now.
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> As always, thank you to my ever-patient beta Dio, and to my wonderful husband for putting up with me verbally hashing out plots in their general direction. A special thanks this chapter to Ivy, for helping me write the confessional scene as authentically as possible, and many thanks to the people who constantly encourage me. Y'all's enthusiasm is what keeps me motivated.
> 
> Quick warning for uncensored homophobic slurs in a couple spots. Nothing like the previous chapter, however.

_Oh God._

_Oh God oh God oh God—_

_Please God, please don’t make me do this—_

And just like that, Aziraphale finds himself right back where he started. Things he generally tries very hard not to remember resurface with an intensity he hasn’t experienced in years. There’s nothing he can do about it except do his best to keep breathing, and ride it out. 

He comes out of it as well as one can come out of a panic attack this bad. He isn’t sure how much time has passed, but his watch tells him that it’s been around half an hour. Even as his breathing slows and his heart rate returns to a more comfortable speed, he can’t seem to get his father’s words out of his head— _some kind of fucking faggot._

Not him. That’s not him. He’s not going to think about it. He’s made it this long—if he can just keep his mind in check he can avoid falling into sin. 

Unfortunately, intrusive thoughts are a bitch.

His thoughts slide from his father’s words that night, to how good it felt to be with Anthony, to the night of their first kiss, and all the things Anthony said to him before they kissed. Determined to clear his head, Aziraphale stands up from his desk, perhaps faster than he should after hyperventilating for so long. His head spins for a moment, but soon he is able to make his way to the door and into the hallway. 

As soon as he steps out, he sees Crowley sitting in the hallway, his back against the wall outside Aziraphale’s office door, just like he used to sit when he would listen to Aziraphale play the piano all those years ago. When Crowley hears Aziraphale, he stands up as quickly as he can.

Aziraphale can see the concern in Crowley’s eyes, and is hit with a pang of guilt, so he tries to summon the capacity to speak. “I’m fine,” he manages to choke out. “I need to be alone right now.”

Crowley nods and backs away, giving Aziraphale space. He turns and makes his way toward the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who shakes his head ever so slightly.

Aziraphale turns on his heel and speedwalks his way down the stairs, out the door, and all the way to his flat. Once inside, he does everything he can to keep himself busy. Though he’s finished with the panic attack had in his office, he knows that it has left him vulnerable to another, and he’ll do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening. He cleans his whole apartment to absolute spotlessness, then tries to read a book, and when that doesn’t work, he goes to his piano and pounds out Brahms’ second piano concerto as loud as he can—anything to drown out the dissonant chorus of painful memories cluttering his brain. He finishes it and moves on through his repertoire, playing anything he can think of—anything to keep his mind at bay.

Aziraphale loses track as he plays, and before he knows it, the first rays of sunrise are beginning to creep through his window. Noticing the sunlight, he is jolted from his playing with a start. The fact that he has just stayed up all night vacantly playing the piano fully processes in his mind, and he sits motionless for a moment, unsure how to continue about his day. He doesn’t feel in the least bit tired, even though he knows full well that after how stressful his day—well, yesterday, at this point—was, in addition to not having slept a wink, he should be absolutely exhausted.

After gathering himself, Aziraphale gets up, supposing he should carry about his day as normally as he can. He seems to have warded off Those Memories for now, but at the steep cost of being able to move through his day with the same sharpness as he usually does. Everything he does feels fake, as if he is somehow far, far away from his body, controlling his corporeal form with invisible puppet strings. 

Aziraphale goes through the motions of his day, making his tea, reading some book he finds on the table, walking to campus, and other such things. He isn’t quite sure how he makes it through his lecture that day, but all of a sudden, he is dismissing his students and they’re leaving the lecture hall and he’s left standing in front of the whiteboard, wondering how on earth he got here and what he’s done with the beginning part of his day. He knows it happened, but exactly what happened has managed to escape him.

He leaves the lecture hall, forgetting to turn the lights off behind him, and retreats to his office with his lunch. How did he get a lunch? Did he make that for himself? He can’t remember, but he is grateful that, somehow, he acquired lunch. He eats it, still in a haze, and, somehow, he makes it through the rest of the day without tripping over his puppet feet.

Several hours later, Aziraphale is back in his office, sitting at his piano bench. He has just finished playing a favorite piece of his when the familiar sound of Crowley’s perfect tone cuts through his daze, mimicking the main theme of the piece. Startled, his head jerks toward the door as he realizes what Crowley wants, but he can’t find it in himself to respond. Instead, Aziraphale reacts as he did the very first time Crowley parroted a melody back to him—he panics ever so slightly, packs up his things, and leaves as quickly as he can manage.

The sound of Crowley’s violin serves as another reminder of the man’s presence in Aziraphale’s life, and his vague panic follows him all the way from his office to his flat. He lets himself in, and as he stares at his already immaculate home, he finally realizes that he has nothing left to shield him from the things he has been trying so hard to hide from for the last 24 hours—for the last 20 years, more accurately. Suddenly, his flat feels suffocatingly small, and, unable to bear being there a moment longer, he leaves as quickly as he came. His feet carry him to his church, where he finds the door locked. He checks his watch, and it’s only 16:30, so he assumes someone must have gone home early. He makes his way around the building to the perpetual adoration chapel, fumbling for his keys to let himself in. The chapel is empty, a fact for which Aziraphale is deeply grateful. This isn’t something any of the people in his church need to see. The people of his church see him as a confident, unwaveringly faithful man, not someone whose deepest sense of self can be shaken by a couple of poorly-timed questions from the wrong person at the wrong time. 

Aziraphale makes his way to a pew and sits for a moment, looking around him. He doesn’t come here very often, and even though he has been going to this church for more than a decade now, he still feels out of place. He glances around the deserted chapel and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

He knows what he has come here to do, but, for some reason, his brain won’t let him do it. The dissociative fog that has settled over him in response to his aggressive avoidance of processing and dealing with his panic attack makes it hard for him to form any coherent thoughts at all now. He isn’t sure how long he has been sitting in silence, his hands clasped in his lap, and he deliberately doesn’t check his watch, choosing instead to bask in the thoughtless haze that has plagued him all day. One or two of his fellow churchgoers come and go as he sits there, nodding politely as they pass him, but not speaking. 

Slowly, slowly, thoughts begin to form. As he finally achieves a state of semi-relaxation, he is able to begin to process his and Crowley’s conversation the previous afternoon. A moment later, his thoughts turn down a dark path as he relives once more the memories that played back to him in his office. In that moment, the carefully constructed denial upon which he has built his sense of self begins to crumble beneath him, and, for the first time, he is able to look back consciously upon that night without sending himself immediately into a panic attack. As the weight of this development settles onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, he feels tears well up in his eyes, and he struggles to stay quiet as he begins to cry.

Vaguely thankful that the chapel is deserted once more, Aziraphale lurches forward from the pew onto the cushion beneath. His hands are sore from gripping them so hard for so long as he sat in the pew, but now he unfolds them over his face, choking apologies out between sobs. He isn’t sure who he is apologizing to, but it’s the only thing he can think to say right now. Later, he will come to understand that, more than anything, he is apologizing to himself. Right now, however, all he can do is cry. 

Eventually, he has cried so much that he can’t anymore, and he devolves into praying the rosary over and over and over, desperate for comfort and that feeling of closeness with the Almighty. He does not immediately feel Her presence as clearly as he usually does when he prays, and he worries that his recollections have distanced him from Her. However, as he makes his way from bead to bead, he slowly begins to calm down once more, and he feels the presence of the Almighty drape over him like a weighted blanket, forcing his breathing to steady and his heart rate to slow. 

He sits in silence once more, this time basking in the Almighty’s comfort rather than the haze of discontent that be brought into the chapel. Finally, a thought bubbles up inside him:

_What am I?_

This is followed by another thought:

_A faggot._

Which prompts, from somewhere deep inside him, beyond all his doubts and insecurities, beneath his self-hatred and denial, from the very core of his being, a thought that he knows intrinsically is not his, but rather, one that God has placed within him. 

_No._

_Perhaps g—_

He can’t say it, not even in his head. Not yet.

_But not a faggot._

This prompts a more personal question directed straight at God, rather than directionless semi-conversation with no one:

_How could you not despise me, knowing I’m like this?_

Once more a thought surfaces in Aziraphale’s mind, and he knows that though it comes from deep within him, its origin is with God alone:

_How could I despise my child, whom I have made with my own hands?_

To which Aziraphale responds: 

_But—_

And with that, his thoughts are cut off by silence. The heavy comfort of the Almighty is gone, and Aziraphale is left with only lingering warmth, despite the chill of the stone chapel, and although he is just as confused as he was when he walked into the chapel, if not more so, at least he doesn’t feel quite so alone.

Suddenly very aware that his knees are becoming sore, Aziraphale pushes himself back up into the pew. He sits there for a long time, letting his mind wander. 

Sometime around seven, the door to the chapel opens and another churchgoer takes a seat several rows behind Aziraphale. As he hears the pew creak gently with the weight of someone sitting on it, his heart jumps into his throat. Suddenly, he feels incredibly exposed, sure that the newcomer, whoever it is, can see straight into his mind. Do they know? How could they not? Anxiety creeps up his spine and he has to leave he has to leave he has to leave, so he stands and walks out of the chapel as fast as he can without looking like he’s trying to walk fast. 

As he puts distance between himself and the chapel, a buzz of disjointed, conflicting thoughts clogs his mind:

_There’s no way they could tell there’s no way—_

_Tell what tell what tell what tell wh—_

_That I’m—_

_I’m what?_

_Not gay not gay not gay gay gay NOT GAY_

_Oh, for the love of God, stop pretending—_

_I’m not pretending, I’m deciding._

_You can’t just—_

_Yes I can._

_Not gay._

_Everything is fine._

Just as Aziraphale settles himself on this conclusion, he passes someone on the street, and he is violently flung back to the start of it. He makes several trips through this general thought process, his anxiety renewing each time he sees another person. By the time he makes it back to his flat, he has reached a point of duality—he knows deep inside himself that he is gay, but his staunch refusal to acknowledge it has become much more conscious, which has resulted in a singularly interesting form of denial, a la 1984 doublethink. Any internal progress he may have made back in the perpetual adoration chapel has been more or less undone by his own anxiety. 

As Aziraphale closes the door behind him, he looks around his apartment. It is just as clean as it was last time he walked in, but it doesn’t carry the same suffocating feeling as it did before. He is not entirely comfortable with the silence, but he sets about reading a book and tries his best to put his mental arguments from his mind. 

Naturally, he doesn’t make it that long before he becomes restless, and he finds himself once more at his piano, pounding out anything from his repertoire that he can think of. This does the trick—finally, he is able to put his mind at ease. He’ll deal with the loose ends later. For now, he just needs a moment of peace from all his relentless thoughts.

The hours slip by much faster than Aziraphale expects, and before he knows it, midnight has long since passed, and the clock is approaching four in the morning. He sits on the piano bench for a moment in complete stillness, and realizes that he hasn’t slept or eaten in more than two days. Suddenly, the exhaustion hits. All of his internal emotional labor over the last few days, as well as the physical stress it has caused him, comes crashing down on him, and the fact that he has now gone almost two full nights without sleep certainly doesn’t help. Aziraphale stands, closes the lid of the piano, and goes to his bedroom, barely managing to get his clothes off before passing out on top of his covers.

When Aziraphale finally wakes, it is still dark outside. Confused, he checks his clock, and it informs him that it is nearing 19:00. The reality of this takes a moment to settle in, as Aziraphale realizes that not only did he miss his lecture and his office hours, he didn’t even send out an email notifying his students that he would be absent. His mind races through his options, even though he knows that there’s nothing for it. All he can do is send an apology out via email and show up tomorrow. He sighs, pulling out his phone and typing a cursory explanation for his absence.

As he hits send, Aziraphale suddenly realizes how hungry he is. He sits up in his bed, weighing his options: get up and eat, or sleep through it and hope for the best? He is leaning toward going back to sleep, when he realizes that he could be getting sushi, so he swings his legs over the side of his bed and stands. 

After throwing on the clothes he was wearing before he collapsed into bed, he makes the short walk to the sushi restaurant and orders a combination of rolls that is altogether baffling to the staff. They are used to being able to deduce his general mood by his roll choices, but this time, it’s anyone’s guess.

An hour and a half after waking up, Aziraphale falls back into his bed, full of sushi and feeling altogether much better than he did when he first fell asleep. He double and triple-checks that his alarms are set to the proper time, promising himself that whether or not he’s reached a stable conclusion about his sexuality, at the very least, he will be on time to his lecture tomorrow.

——

Crowley is not surprised when he doesn’t hear from Aziraphale for a few days after their argument. He certainly isn’t happy about it, but he isn’t surprised. His bad mood is overtaken by concern, however, when he sees Aziraphale the morning after their argument. The circles under his eyes are telling, and there is a vacant expression on his face. Each time Crowley catches a glimpse of Aziraphale that day, he carries that same air of distantness, and Crowley becomes more and more worried with each passing hour. 

Crowley’s mounting concern over Aziraphale’s wellbeing puts him under a great deal of stress, as he is unable to do anything about it. He has come to be used to having Aziraphale in his life again, and such a sudden change in that constancy has rendered him, in a few words, a bit tetchy. He tries not to take this out on his students, lest he incur even more of Aziraphale’s wrath than he already has. He is sure they can sense his mood nonetheless, but he does his best not to be short with them. Frankly, he’s a bit irritated that he’s let himself get into this position once more, not only with a man who is seemingly unable to accept himself, but the exact same man as the last time this happened to him. This is what he gets for being such a sucker for those big blue eyes.

The first day after their argument passes without a word. As the second day dawns, Crowley still can’t get Aziraphale out of his head, which does nothing good for his mood. He has a long day of lessons ahead of him, and the last thing he needs is to have Aziraphale’s condition at the front of his mind.

Somehow, he manages to make it through the first part of his day without anything making it irreparably worse. In fact, teaching his lessons has, so far, made him feel much better. It’s given him something else to fill his mind, and by the time Adam pokes his head through the door at the start of his lesson, he feels altogether much better than he did when he woke up this morning.

“Hi, Adam, how’s your day?” Crowley says, trying to mask his overall mood with a sunny tone.

“Not bad,” answers Adam, dropping his backpack on the floor and getting out his violin. “Ol’ Zira wasn’t in class today,” he adds.

Crowley’s head snaps up immediately to meet Adam’s eyes. “Where was he?” he asks, painfully aware of how concerned he sounds. 

“Dunno,” says Adam. “Didn’t say. Didn’t even send an email. We waited half an hour and then left.”

“That’s odd,” Crowley says, and with that, his good mood is ruined. Aziraphale never misses class. Granted, Crowley hasn’t actually taught with him until this year, but he knows him well enough to know that this is very out of character for him, and he is filled with worry once more. 

Somehow, he makes it through Adam’s lesson without any major disasters, but he is dead sure that Adam can tell something is up. Slowly, but surely, he makes it to the end of the day. He desperately wants to talk to Aziraphale, or see him, or even just know that he’s alright. Anything to alleviate the dread that’s settled in the pit of his stomach—

Oh God, is this his fault? How could it not be? Well, obviously it’s Aziraphale’s father’s fault in the first place, but still—

What if Aziraphale hurt himself? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Crowley isn’t sure. After Aziraphale brought his things back to him all those years ago, all contact had been cut off between them. Crowley never got the chance to learn how Aziraphale deals with things like this, oh God, Christ, what if something happens to him? He doesn’t think he’ll be able to live with himself if he was the cause of the flashback that pushed Aziraphale over the edge.

These thoughts follow him through the rest of the day and into the evening. He isn’t able to concentrate on anything, no matter how hard he tries, so he just goes to bed early, resolving to talk to Aziraphale as soon as he can.

Crowley tosses and turns all night, and when he wakes up, he is full of anxiety that clouds his mind and plagues him all the way to campus. When he arrives, he makes a beeline for Aziraphale, knowing that if he’s here, he will already be in his office. Crowley hopes to catch him before his lecture, and luckily, he makes it. 

Knocking lightly on the doorframe, Crowley pokes his head around the doorframe. Aziraphale looks startled to see him, but is jovial enough. Crowley, for his part, is just relieved to see that Aziraphale is alright. 

“Can I help you, Crowley?”

“Ah— no, not really, actually,” says Crowley. “I heard you weren’t here yesterday, and I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“And why wouldn’t I be alright?” Aziraphale says, with an air of haughtiness that Crowley hasn’t heard from him since they ran into each other the night before classes started.

“Well, after our conversation the other night—”

“I’m fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale clips, cutting Crowley off mid-sentence. “You don’t need to worry about me.” 

Though Aziraphale’s words seem like they should be comforting, the iciness in his tone betrays his feelings. It cuts straight through Crowley’s worry for him and turning it to mild irritation. 

“Aziraphale, the past is the past,” says Crowley. “We might have been together once, but that was then, and this is now. Why can’t we just be _adults_ about this?”

Aziraphale’s lips purse and he waits a beat before responding. “First of all, we were never together. Second of all, I’m not interested in being friends.”

Crowley’s brow arches. “We were certainly _together_ when I had my—”

“Crowley!” Abruptly standing up from his desk chair, Aziraphale slaps his hands down on his desk. 

Irritated, Crowley looks away. This is getting out of hand, and he doesn’t want to make things between them worse than they already are. They’re going to be stuck teaching together for a long time, unless one of them suddenly decides to leave St. Basil. He knows he has no plans to do that, and he knows that Aziraphale has been here long enough that he will not want to leave either. Crowley sighs, curbing his anger. Escalating this won’t help either of them, and he knows that. He pinches the bridge of his nose and waits a moment before replying. 

“Look at us, Aziraphale. We used to be so close. Things don’t have to be like they were, but I don’t want them to be like this.”

“I don’t either, but I can’t see us being friends.”

“Is there really no way we could ever get past what happened back then?”

“I don’t know, Anthony, but I can’t do this anymore.” Aziraphale sits back down at his desk, looking defeated. “Please, just go, before things get worse.”

This isn’t how Crowley wanted this to go. As he leaves, pulling Aziraphale’s office door shut behind him, he glances back through the window to see Aziraphale at his desk with his face in his hands, shoulders slumped. Aziraphale looks up, as though sensing that there are eyes on him. Even from outside the door, Crowley can see that there are tears welling up in his eyes, and he looks away sharply, not wanting to see Aziraphale in pain again. 

He should never have said anything. Maybe then, they could have returned to a stiff silence, never actually talking about what happened. Crowley is fairly certain that would have hurt less than a definitive end to their friendship. 

——

Anathema is sitting at her kitchen table plodding away at her homework when her phone lights up with a text from Adam. She knows that she shouldn’t let herself get distracted from her work, but she also knows that when Adam texts her out of the blue, it usually has something to do with Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship, and she is far more interested in that than she is in her Schenkerian analysis homework, no matter how interesting Aziraphale makes it.

Anathema unlocks her phone and reads the text:

_Zira wasn’t in class yesterday_

To which she replies:

_There’s gotta be more to that story lol_

Adam’s typing bubble reappears for a moment, and he replies:

_I can only type so fast lmao_

Which he follows with:

_I told Crowley about it during my lesson, you should’ve seen his face_

Anathema considers this for a moment, before sending:

_Makes sense, Zira never misses a class. I’ve never heard of him doing that_

Adam replies:

_He doens’t really seem the type tbh_

_**doesn’t_

Anathema can’t think of anything to say, so she doesn’t reply. She tries to go back to her homework, but she can’t seem to reign in her thoughts. She can’t stop thinking about the prying question she asked Aziraphale a few days prior. Trying to tell herself that there’s no way that could have been her fault, she makes another valiant attempt to finish her analysis, but to no avail. Finally, she gives up and puts it away and spends the remainder of the evening watching _Golden Girls_.

The next afternoon, Anathema has a free moment after class, so she makes her way up to Aziraphale’s office. She hasn’t been able to shake her worry that she somehow caused his turmoil.

“Aziraphale?” she knocks lightly on his doorframe.

Aziraphale looks up. “Anathema! How are you?” 

She smiles, saying, “I’m alright. A little stressed, but that’s normal. How are you?”

Aziraphale’s smile falters slightly. “I’ve been better, in all honesty.”

Anathema grimaces. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

Looking mildly confused, Aziraphale replies, “For what?”

“For— for prying,” says Anathema. “The other day. I heard you missed class.”

“That’s not your fault, Anathema,” says Aziraphale with a gentle smile. “You may have helped to resurface some— unpleasant memories, but what happened in my past is in no way your fault.”

Anathema scrunches up her nose. “I still feel bad.” 

“Don’t. It’s alright.”

Anathema stays in Aziraphale’s office for a little while longer, talking and catching up with him. When she leaves, she feels a little better, knowing that even if she was part of the cause of Aziraphale’s downswing in mood, he at least doesn’t hold it against her. As she walks to her next commitment, she resolves to be a bit more careful with her questions in the future.

——

After Anathema leaves, Aziraphale’s smile droops. The look of worry on Anathema’s face when she first stepped into his office calls back to the look on Crowley’s face when he showed up to check on him. Aziraphale has been doing his best to get that look out of his mind, but he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that he made a mistake. This is irritating to him, because he wants nothing to do with Crowley anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

If he’s being honest, Aziraphale knows that he desperately misses Crowley. He’s just not happy about it. He would rather cut Crowley out of his life than face the truth about himself and let him back in. He knows that this will not make him happy, but it’s a hell of a lot easier, and sometimes, easy is the way to go. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tries to kick the feelings he has for Crowley, he can’t seem to get rid of them.

Aziraphale rubs his eyes. He can’t seem to stop hurting Crowley, no matter what he does, and now he’s gone and upset Anathema. He knows exactly why he keeps doing this, too. If only he could just accept that he’s— If he could just— Just stop avoiding his problems. The more he avoids them, the more he’ll hurt the people around him.

Unfortunately, knowing what’s wrong doesn’t make it any easier to stop.

Aziraphale sits in complete stillness for a moment, trying to find a way around confronting his problems, but he can’t run away anymore. 

He checks his watch. He doesn’t have any more classes today, so if he walks quickly, he can still make it. He hurries home and drops his things off, and then heads out into the December chill once more. Weather like this sometimes makes him wish he had a car, but he pushes through it.

As Aziraphale approaches his church, he grimaces. No matter how many times he goes to confess, he can never get over the lingering discomfort of looking his priest in the eye and listing off all the shameful things he’s done. He glances once more at his watch. 16:43. Just in time. He enters through a side door to the sanctuary and makes his way to the back, where he can see Father Charles waiting in a pew for anyone who comes to confess. Aziraphale is relieved to see that there is no one with him at the moment, knowing full well that if he had any time at all to think about what he’s doing, he would turn around and high tail it out of the church in no time.

Once Aziraphale greets Father Charles, he knows there is no turning back. He briefly considers conveniently skipping over what’s really weighing on his mind, but he knows that won’t help him in the least. He sits down next to him, performs the sign of the cross, and then hesitates for a moment.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Aziraphale pauses. “It’s been… a month since my last confession, I think.” He’s slacked off lately, and he can’t help but feel a bit guilty about it.

Father Charles stays silent, and so does Aziraphale. He knows Charles is waiting for him to continue, but it’s always hard for him to start rattling off all the things he’s done wrong. This time, it’s even harder than usual. 

“I’m listening, Aziraphale. You needn’t feel ashamed,” Father Charles says, gently prodding him to say what’s on his mind.

“I keep hurting people, Father,” Aziraphale blurts. He stops himself, still not completely ready to continue.

Father Charles waits a moment before simply asking, “How so?”

“I— I keep— pushing away people who care about me. Even if I want them to stay.”

“Well— ah, why?”

“Father, I—” Aziraphale cuts himself off, glancing around the sanctuary. Even though it’s totally deserted, he feels exposed, like the whole world can hear him. “Could we go to your office?”

“Of course,” says Father Charles, standing.

Aziraphale follows him to his office, not looking up from his shoes the whole time. He is utterly terrified of what will happen when he says what he came here to say, but he’s going to do it, no matter what. He feels as if he has lost control of himself—his body is on autopilot, and he’s just along for the ride. He’s uncomfortably familiar with this sensation, so he tries his best to ride it out. 

Father Charles closes his office door behind them and turns to face Aziraphale. He takes Aziraphale’s hand gently in his, and Aziraphale is briefly self-conscious of how sweaty his palms are right now.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I— I keep pushing people away who want to be there for me. One person in particular. And it’s hurting him. It’s hurting both of us.”

“Why do it if it hurts you both? Do you want to hurt him?”

“No, Father. That’s the last thing I want.”

“Then why do you do it?”

By now, Aziraphale is shaking like a leaf in the wind. His head is spinning and it’s all he can do to keep from hyperventilating and there are sirens of every variety going off in his head, which makes it very difficult for him to concentrate or form sentences. Suddenly he’s feeling very lightheaded and blackness is creeping in on the sides of his field of vision, and if he doesn’t get it out soon, he’ll never do it and then he’ll pass out, and—

“F— Father, I— I think I’m gay.” And with that, Aziraphale breaks. He bursts into tears, nearly collapsing where he stands. 

Father Charles leads him to a chair and sits him down, murmuring gentle words of comfort in an attempt to get him to calm down, even a little. He pulls up a chair across from Aziraphale and takes his hand back, clasping between his own. Aziraphale is covering his eyes with his free hand, so Charles reaches for a box of tissues and places it within Aziraphale’s reach.

After a few more moments, Aziraphale quiets and begins to wipe away his tears. Father Charles remains silent, knowing that he has more to say. 

“I just— if he gets too close, I’ll fall into sin, but every time I push him away, the look on his face— it kills me.”

“Sin?” asks Father Charles. 

Aziraphale nods. “A long time ago, we— we were together. _Together_.” He pauses. “If I let him get too close, I’m afraid I’ll do it again.”

“Do what again?” Charles asks, refusing to let anything go unsaid.

“S— sleep with him.”

There is a long silence. Aziraphale stares at his hands.

“How long have you been holding this in, Aziraphale?” asks Charles. 

Aziraphale looks up, and then looks down again. “Twenty years,” he murmurs, embarrassed. 

“That’s a long time to let this eat away at you.”

Aziraphale nods slowly. “I’ve tried so hard to make it go away,” he whispers.

“Why?”

“So I can live in grace and virtue.”

“Aziraphale, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with showing love to someone you care about,” Father Charles says, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand gently. “I— I think you should think less about what an earthly entity has to say about homosexuality, and more about what a God made of love and light would say.”

Aziraphale looks up, eyes wide. His mind returns to his prayers in the perpetual adoration chapel, and tears well up once more, blurring his vision. His brain is short-circuiting—he had expected to be renounced, to be assigned penance for his shameful actions and warned never to let his sexuality tempt him into sinful relations with a man. This is the first time anyone has shown him love and acceptance on this front, and, to put it simply, he has no idea how to process it. No one he’s ever told has treated him with such kindness.

Well, he supposes, that’s not entirely true.

Crowley did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooohohohohoho NO EDITING WE POST LIKE MEN
> 
> was I watching golden girls as I wrote this? absolutely. is that why I had anathema watch it? also absolutely
> 
> I'm so tired. I'll made edits tomorrow if needed, but I really really wanted to get this posted. deepest apologies for any errors you may find, and i'll fix them tomorrow. 
> 
> I feel bad for falling off my weekly posting routine for the last several chapters, but I don't think I'm going to be able to pick back up with it. Things have gotten busier for me, and I think pushing myself to write a chapter a week had me speeding down the road to burnout, and that's the last thing I want.
> 
> anyway, thank you all for reading. I love you all!!! it is time for me to go collapse into bed


	8. If I Drink Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Talia by King Princess! My husband loves this song and they introduced me to it, so y'all can thank them for it being here right now.
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> I have so many people to thank this time around, gosh. Thanks to Dio, my ever-faithful beta, who was still willing to help me out with this even after I took a three week break from writing. Thanks to my perfect and wonderful husband, who's dealt with my depressed ass for the last month or so. Thanks to my friends in the discord server for the constant encouragement and ego boosts. Without y'all I probably never would have picked this back up, and it's not something I wanted to give up on.

A near-nauseating wave of relief combined with the burning realization of how unfairly he has treated Crowley over the last few months—and the last twenty years, frankly—sear collectively through Aziraphale’s chest. Tears spill involuntarily down his cheeks, and before he knows what he’s doing, he finds himself absolutely sobbing into Father Charles’s shirt. Father Charles does his best to comfort him, gently patting Aziraphale’s shoulder and waiting for him to catch his breath. 

Aziraphale has cried a lot lately, but this time is different. This time, he cries more freely, no longer pinned under the weight of suppressing his feelings. The burden is not lifted entirely from his shoulders, however—he still has to do his penance, catch up on his grading, learn to be okay with himself, that sort of thing.

Aziraphale’s sobs slow, and eventually cease.

And he should probably talk to his mother.

Shit. Fuck. He really should have thought this through. 

Before he can dwell for too long on this predicament, Aziraphale is pulled from his thoughts by Father Charles pulling back from their embrace to look him in the eye. 

“Are you alright?” Father Charles asks, clearly worried. 

Aziraphale sniffles. “I— I’m fine,” he says. 

Father Charles arches an eyebrow. 

“Or at least— I will be. Eventually.”

Father Charles smiles. Aziraphale looks at him expectantly, waiting to receive his penance. They are silent for a moment.

“Er— my penance?” Aziraphale asks, assuming that Father Charles has forgotten. 

“Penance for what?” replies Father Charles.

Aziraphale stares at him. “For—”

“Love has no penance, Aziraphale,” Charles continues. “Remember what I said— think of how a God of love would feel about it. The Catholic Church isn’t a particularly friendly place for gay people, but He is a much higher authority.”

Aziraphale winces at being called gay—he still isn’t used to the word as applied to himself yet, nor is he completely ready to say it so casually just yet. In all honesty, he isn’t even sure if he’s ready to believe it at all, even though deep down, he knows it’s true. He’s known it’s true for a long time.

Aziraphale takes a ragged breath in. “I suppose that’s not everything.”

Father Charles says nothing, knowing that Aziraphale will continue.

“There’s someone who— who cares about me, and who I care about too, but I’ve pushed him away needlessly so many times now.”

“Aziraphale, you know full well what should be done about that. I don’t think I need to tell you how to reconcile it, in all honesty.” Father Charles’s words are stern, but his eyes are kind. Despite Aziraphale’s obviously intentional vagueness, Father Charles knows exactly who he’s been pushing away. He’s heard plenty about the situation over the course of the last several months, in bits and pieces each time Aziraphale has come to confession, and has therefore been able to cobble together a relatively accurate snapshot of the situation.

Aziraphale looks at his feet. Father Charles is right—he knows what he needs to do. Or, at least, he has a pretty good idea of what it is. 

He needs to apologize.

As he leaves the church a few minutes later, Aziraphale cycles through different ways he could phrase an apology to Crowley. For as righteous of a man as he tries to be, Aziraphale is dismally bad at apologizing. Instead, he makes it his mission to never do anything to anyone for which he would need to apologize at all.

_Hey, Crowley. Sorry about the last twenty years. Turns out I was sad._

Doesn’t really have the nuance he’s looking for.

_Hi, sorry I was a total dickbag—_

Not quite in character for him. Did he pick that up from his students?

Aziraphale decides he’ll figure it out later. He worries nonetheless about putting it off for too long—he’s fully aware that the longer he waits, the harder it will be, both for him and for Crowley.

As he walks, his mind returns to how nonchalantly Father referred to him as gay back in his office. While that certainly threw him for a loop, it didn’t elicit the same intensity of reaction as when Crowley had done it a few days prior. Aziraphale certainly doesn’t feel any more ready to admit it now than he did then. Maybe he never will. Maybe it’s just a matter of exposure. And then again, he supposes, maybe it doesn’t really matter at all, so long as he adjusts.

Frankly, it doesn’t make much difference in the end. Ready or not, he’s already said it out loud. To name this is to make it real—to make it concrete, to give it power, and maybe someday, to have power over it.

_Gay._

He really needs to get used to the word. He whispers it aloud, quietly enough that no one else can hear. It feels dirty on his tongue, too abrupt a word to encompass all the pain and suffering he’s had to endure on its account over the last two decades. He sighs.

Aziraphale is pulled from this train of thought as he passes a pub he visits on occasion. Deciding that a drink or two would make all this pesky processing easier, he steps inside. Being that it’s a bit early for drinking, the pub is relatively deserted. He approaches the bar and gets himself a gin and tonic, and finds himself the most secluded place to sit that he can. 

As the pub fills up around him with the usual weekend crowd, Aziraphale’s drinks begin to blur together, and he loses track of how much he has had. At first, his mind wanders lazily through the events that have transpired in recent weeks, but as his blood alcohol level rises, he begins down an anxiety-inducing path, mulling over the things he has done and said that have hurt Crowley, both recently and long ago.

Aziraphale begins to worry about the apology looming over him. He knows he has to do it at some point, but when? He can’t think of a single time when it _wouldn’t_ be awkward for him to pull Crowley aside and apologize for basically everything he’s ever done to him. God, why did he ever let himself into this position? There is no good time for this, and there never will be. He may as well do it now.

Actually, Aziraphale muses, that’s not such a bad idea.

The drinks are in full swing in his system now, and thanks to the generous amount of gin he has consumed, he has absolutely no problem pulling out his phone and dialing Crowley’s number. Screw planning his words.

——

Upset as he is that his and Aziraphale’s friendship seems to have come to a definitive close, Crowley can’t help but entertain a small flicker of hope inside his chest that Aziraphale will change his mind. The more he thinks about it, the more annoyed he is by it. How stupid does he have to be to keep pining after such an emotionally constipated man?

Then again, he isn’t really one to talk, is he?

Crowley sighs and swirls his whiskey around in its glass. He checks his phone. Just after eleven. As soon as he begins to wonder what he should do with the last remnants of his night, however, his phone begins to buzz with a call from Aziraphale.

His brow furrows—why on earth would Aziraphale be calling him? Before he can put too much thought into it, he answers.

“Aziraphale?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale drawls, lingering a bit too long on each syllable. Crowley can practically smell the booze on his breath, even through his phone. 

“You’ve been drinking,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale gasps. “How did you know?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Lucky guess.”

There is a beat of silenced before Aziraphale continues, “Crowley?”

“Yes, Aziraphale?”

“Why don’t you hate me?”

“Wha—”

“Shouldn’t you hate me? After all these years?”

“Aziraphale, I could never hate you.”

There is a silence. Crowley’s frown deepens. He hasn’t seen Aziraphale like this in a long time—not since before they parted ways all those years ago. Back then, drunkenness was the only way Aziraphale could bear to be with him.

Except for the last time, that is.

Knowing that Aziraphale could only handle expressing his affection for him while drunk hurt Crowley then, and the idea that it might happen again hurts preemptively. He knows it isn’t about him—it’s about Aziraphale’s stubborn refusal to process his trauma—but it certainly feels like it’s his fault. Crowley isn’t willing to let himself get into that situation again, and—oh god, is that where this is going? Crowley _really_ isn’t interested in playing therapist for a trashed Aziraphale tonight.

Aziraphale breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, Crowley.”

Taken aback, Crowley finds himself unsure how to respond. He’d had his whole spiel nearly planned—he is plenty used to talking Aziraphale down when he gets like this—but this is uncharted territory.

“For what?” Crowley replies.

“I— for everything. For yelling at you the other day. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“Aziraph— any of what?”

“Everything this whole semester, and everything back when we were at uni, and everything my father did—”

“Aziraphale, it’s not your fault you were treated the way you were,” says Crowley.

“M— maybe not, but that doesn’t justify it. My cr— cruelty,” replies Aziraphale, his voice breaking. “God, I’m so sorry, Crowley. I’m so sorry.”

“You might have been a little cold, but I wouldn’t necessarily say you were cruel.”

“Either way, you don’t deserve it, Crowley,” says Aziraphale. “You’ve put up with so much.”

Crowley remains silent for a moment. It’s not like Aziraphale is wrong. He has put up with quite a bit. But then again, so has Aziraphale. It’s not exactly his fault he was so heavily repressed.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“I— I dunno. Lots. Lost count.”

“Where are you?” 

“The Sinking Ship. Why d’you wanna know?”

“Someone has to make sure you get home alright, Aziraphale, and I’m fairly certain you’re not fit to do that right now.”

“I’m— I’m fine, Crowley, really—”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t you dare leave alone.”

Crowley hangs up and stands. This isn’t how he had imagined spending his evening, but at least he doesn’t have any other plans.

When Crowley arrives at the Sinking Ship, he finds Aziraphale at a table in the corner. Aziraphale’s posture is not as perfect as it usually is, betraying his drunkenness. His eyes, however, are focused, and he responds to Crowley alertly enough. Drunk, but not utterly trashed. If they were still at uni, Aziraphale would wake up just fine in the morning, but now, as they both approach forty, Crowley isn’t sure how Aziraphale will feel in the morning.

“Come on, let’s get your tab settled,” Crowley says, offering Aziraphale a hand. Aziraphale takes it, but is able to walk unassisted—though a bit unsteadily—to the bar. The bartender eyes Crowley as he stands behind Aziraphale like a concerned parent, a mix of slight confusion and relief that someone has come to fetch Aziraphale written across his face.

Crowley walks Aziraphale to the Bentley and opens the door for him. 

“I’m not _that_ drunk, Crowley,” says Aziraphale. 

“Shut up and let me help you,” replies Crowley. He pauses for a moment, and then continues, “Did you mean what you said on the phone?”

“Of course. Being drunk hasn’t made me any less sincere.” Aziraphale looks down and then gets into the car. 

Crowley follows suit, tapping Aziraphale’s address into the map on his phone. After a quick glance at the route, he takes off, and within minutes, he is parked illegally in front of Aziraphale’s door. 

“Thank you, Crowley, really,” says Aziraphale, opening the door. He pauses before getting out. “And I really am sorry.” 

“Of course,” replies Crowley, opening his door as well. “And it’s really okay.” He pauses. “Or at least, it will be eventually.” 

Crowley glances up at the building in which Aziraphale lives. Of _course_ he lives above an antique bookshop. He can’t think of a more fitting place for Aziraphale to call home.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting you into bed. And making sure you have some water.”

“I don’t— you don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to, so I’m going to.”

“But Crowley— why?”

Crowley throws a sharp glance at Aziraphale. _Because I’m in love with you. Because you mean the world to me. Because no matter how many times you inadvertently hurt me, I can’t seem to stay away._

“Because I care about you, idiot.”

Aziraphale stares at him, his eyes wide, and Crowley stares back. Just as Crowley begins to see tears welling up in Aziraphale’s eyes, Aziraphale looks away sharply and fumbles with his keys. Crowley snatches them from him and unlocks the door, standing back to allow Aziraphale to enter before him.

“But— but you’ll be towed—”

“Come on. Bedtime.” With that, Crowley ushers Aziraphale up the stairs.

——

Consciousness.

Ugh. Sleep more.

Can’t. Have to pee. 

Gotta get up to pee. Ugh. Can’t do that either.

Pounding. Headache coming on.

Early morning sunlight, streaming in through hastily closed blinds. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day. How disgusting. 

A vague wave of nausea. 

Good God, what did he do last night?

As Aziraphale drifts toward awakening, memories of the previous night come back to him in disjointed bursts, and he comes to the realization that he _might_ have had a bit too much to drink. He hasn’t done that in years, and it shows, based on how he’s feeling right now. He racks his brain, trying to remember how he dealt with hangovers when he was in uni. 

Step one, go to the bathroom.

He does. He doesn’t necessarily love the part where his head feels like it’s made of lead, or the part where his mouth feels like it’s lined with felt, or the whole nausea bit, but he makes it alright.

Step two, chug water.

There is a small cup next to Aziraphale’s bathroom sink. It’s mainly for rinsing his mouth after he brushes his teeth, but it’ll do. He fills and drains it several times before his mouth even begins to feel less dry, but it’s an improvement. Better than nothing. 

Step three, painkillers.

Gotta tackle that headache somehow.

Step four, toast.

Aziraphale exits his room and makes for the kitchen. He opens his refrigerator and stares into it blankly for a moment before he remembers why he opened it. He grabs the bread from its shelf and shoves two slices into the toaster, staring at it intently. He knows that once he’s got it down, he’ll feel a good deal less nauseous, but the waiting is the worst part. 

An agonizing three minutes later, the toast pops up. Jam. Where’s the jam? Why did he think it was a good idea to rearrange his refrigerator in the middle of a massive panic attack? 

Found it. Ugh.

Put it on the toast. Eat the toast.

He wants to sit down. He has a table for that. He goes to it and slumps into a chair, facing the couch. There is a slim figure splayed across it, fast asleep. Who is that? Did he have someone over last night? 

No, that’s not something he would do. Or is it? He isn’t sure. Not after this whole _gay_ thing. Maybe casual sex is something he’s into now. 

Wait.

That’s Crowley. On his couch. Sleeping. How did he get there? Certainly they hadn’t slept together last night. Aziraphale sifts through his ever-so-slightly-foggy memories of the night before, but when he can’t find anything to indicate that he might have slept with Crowley and then inexplicably banished him to the couch, he gives up and just stares at Crowley as he sleeps.

After Aziraphale finishes his toast, he can’t think of a single reason to stay awake, so he chugs some more water and returns to bed. He feels much better than he did when he first woke up, and falling asleep this time is much more peaceful, and much less like his body is made of lead. He sleeps dreamlessly, and when he finally reawakens, Crowley is gone.

Or, at least, almost gone. Aziraphale can hear footsteps retreating, so he leaps from his bed as fast as his lingering hangover will allow him to, and runs out the door. 

——

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale’s voice follows Crowley as he heads down the stairs outside Aziraphale’s apartment. “Crowley!”

Crowley stops. So close. He almost made it out without waking Aziraphale, but that dream has turned to dust now.

“Yes?” Crowley answers, turning back to look up at Aziraphale where he stands near the top of the stairs.

“Um— thank you. For getting me home last night.”

A small smile tugs at Crowley’s lips. “Of course,” he answers. “Anytime.” He turns to leave, but Aziraphale’s voice stops him once more.

“I care about you too, Crowley. For the record.”

This one catches Crowley a little off guard. Aziraphale has been full of surprises these last twelve hours or so, and Crowley isn’t quite sure why, but he’s pretty sure he likes it nonetheless. Aziraphale’s words tug at Crowley’s chest in an uncomfortable but frustratingly familiar way, so he turns away again.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” he says. “I’ll see you on Monday.” Crowley lets himself out the door, plucks a parking ticket off the window of the Bentley, and speeds away. 

Crowley spends the remainder of his day sleeping. He barely slept at all last night, so he needs to catch up, and it’s not like he has any grading to do. Finals are approaching, but he doesn’t give any. Juries are also looming, but it’s not like he can do anything about those right now. Not to mention, he’s fairly certain he’d be totally useless in a lesson tomorrow. He hasn’t put as much emotional energy into a single task or person since, well, when he and Aziraphale were in uni. Thank goodness it’s Saturday.

——

The following Monday, things resume as normal for Crowley and Aziraphale. It isn’t as though their argument had never happened, but things are better. They are both cordial enough toward each other, and Crowley, for his part, can feel something different in the way they interact with each other.

As the stiffness between them dissipates over the course of the next week or so, it becomes clearer and clearer—a softness blossoms between them, one that has not been present since before that fateful night at the Churchs’ house. Neither Aziraphale or Crowley is quite sure what this means for them now, or what it could come to mean in the future, but neither is particularly concerned about it, either.

What really clinches the mending of their friendship for the both of them, however, is the resurgence of their call-and-response ritual. Neither of them thinks consciously about it, but it happens the Tuesday afternoon after Aziraphale’s drunken apologies. It’s a bit faltering at first, but after a few minutes, they find their rhythm. All of their baggage falls away from them—everything that has built within them up as the stress of the last few months has piled onto the painful memories from their past—and in that moment, they create something truly beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooo boy hello again folks, sorry for disappearing for like a month. Things in my life have been a bit of a whirlwind, and I think it put me into a bit of a depressive episode (by which I mean that my normal depression was just more depressing than it usually is). I recently changed jobs, and the stress of that, mixed with money problems, multiple issues getting my meds refilled on time, and some minor medical stresses have really had my mind in other places. But I'm coming out of it, I think. That may be the lexapro talking, but hey, I wrote you a chapter so it's all good I suppose.
> 
> And before you all become worried about my health, don't. I'm taking better care of myself and not pushing myself so hard. I'm back on my meds, i'm established at my new job, and financial issues are clearing up. Things are on the rise, so you _should_ be able to expect more consistent updates from now on. I know I've said that a few times now, but I'm really going to try to hold myself to that, and I think not pushing myself too hard will help
> 
> Anyway!! thank you all so much for reading and commenting. Knowing you all want to keep reading and that you care enough to leave your kind words is what motivates me to write. I want to do this for you all, and I'm so glad you've liked it so far. <3


	9. The Rarest of Pleas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from The Spiritual by Jukebox the Ghost! It's an amazing song, definitely one of their most criminally underrated, and the whole things fits with this chapter really well, tbh. It was hard for me to choose just one line to use as the title. 
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Millions of thanks to my wonderful husband for listening to me complain for like six weeks that I don't have any motivation to write, and millions more to my dear friend Alisa for tirelessly cheering me on as I wrote, and for helping me with the editing process.

With a deep, contented breath, Aziraphale takes his fingers off the keys of his office piano. Yet another call and response with Crowley has come to a close, leaving him feeling calm and centered. It has only been a week or so since he was shepherded back to his flat, drunk off his ass, by an ever-patient Crowley, but things between them have lightened significantly, and Aziraphale has rather enjoyed being able to be around Crowley without feeling like utter garbage about himself. Things certainly haven’t returned to how they were before everything went wrong when they were young, but progress is progress. 

Aziraphale sits in silence for a moment, enjoying this feeling of peace. His mind returns to his and Crowley’s exchange Saturday morning on the stairs. Despite the objective air of finality about their conversation, Aziraphale can’t help but feel as if he is somehow lacking closure. He briefly considers talking to Crowley about it, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how little that would help the situation. 

Finals week is rapidly approaching, and unanswered emails have begun to pile up in his inbox. He puts the matter from his mind and sets about catching up on them. Best to leave the past in the past, he supposes.

Time passes. Aziraphale does not make much headway on what he’s doing. His mind continues to wander, and eventually, he gives up entirely on trying to do anything productive. He fidgets in his desk chair for a moment before giving in.

A moment later, Aziraphale stands outside Crowley’s office door. He takes a deep breath, straightens his tie, and knocks. After a brief but agonizing pause, Crowley’s face appears in the window on his door, an expression of mild surprise written across it. He opens the door just wide enough to lean out. 

“Crowley! Are you— er— are you busy at the moment?” says Aziraphale.

“Er— no, not really.” 

“May I?” Aziraphale asks, nodding toward Crowley’s office. 

Crowley stands aside, and Aziraphale steps past him. He hasn’t been inside Crowley’s office for quite some time. Though it looks much the same now as it did last time, Aziraphale can’t help but see it with new eyes—now that he is no longer here to yell at Crowley for overworking his students, he finds that he likes being here much more. It’s very tastefully decorated—minimalistic, with a few houseplants perched on various pieces of office furniture. Aziraphale glances around for a moment, before Crowley’s voice draws him back to the present. 

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?” says Crowley, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale replies, turning to face him. He hesitates for a moment.

“Well?” 

“Er— it’s about last weekend,” begins Aziraphale. He shifts uncomfortably as he realizes that he isn’t sure what exactly he needs closure for. All he knows is that he needs it, or something that feels like it. 

“What about it?” asks Crowley after yet another brief moment of semi-awkward silence. 

“I just— we never really talked about it,” Aziraphale stutters.

“What is there to talk about?” asks Crowley. He walks back toward his desk and leans back on it, crossing one leg over the other.

“I—” begins Aziraphale, cutting himself off. “I don’t know.” He sits down on the piano bench, facing away from the piano. 

Crowley remains silent, waiting for Aziraphle to continue.

“I— I feel like there’s more to be said,” Aziraphale continues. 

“Do you have more to say?” asks Crowley. 

Aziraphale rubs his face. “I don’t know, Crowley.”

Crowley frowns and crosses his arms. “Then why are you here?” he asks. Aziraphale can hear the exasperation creeping into his voice, and he feels anxiety settle uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m sorry about last weekend. For how I acted.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, I do. Or at least, I think I do. I wasn’t exactly— I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“I’m fully aware of that, Aziraphale,” says Crowley, a smirk playing across his face. “Is this some sort of roundabout way of taking back the things you said?”

“No! Not at all,” replies Aziraphale. He clenches his fists. “I’m just— I meant what I said.”

Another silence.

“I care about you, Crowley. I really do.”

Crowley’s frown softens somewhat.

“And I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath. Reparations are a lot harder than he realized they would be. “You deserve better. And I just wanted— I wanted to tell you that sober, I suppose.”

Aziraphale looks up and finds Crowley staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Th— that’s all,” says Aziraphale, standing. As he turns to leave, he feels Crowley’s hand catch his shoulder. 

“Wait, Aziraphale—”

Aziraphale allows himself to be pulled back around to face Crowley. They’re standing close—closer than they have in a long, long time. Some of the anxiety buzzing low in Aziraphale’s abdomen jumps up to his chest. Some of it stays where it is, but a trace amount sinks lower, lower—

Basically, his whole body is on fire. 

“Crowley—”

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” says Crowley, cutting him off. “Really, thank you.”

“Of course—”

“Did you mean everything you said?” Crowley continues.

Aziraphale looks at him, bewildered. “Of course I did.”

“Everything?”

“Crowley, what on earth are you talking ab—” Aziraphale begins, but it’s too late. Crowley’s face is moving closer to his, and he can feel his breath ghost across his lips, and everything is going so fast—

But one hand, four fingertips pressed gently against Crowley’s chest, puts a stop to the motion.

“Is this really what you want?” asks Aziraphale, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Only if you do,” Crowley answers.

Looking up, Aziraphale sees Crowley’s gold-flecked eyes more clearly than he ever has, and he sees a fire behind them. There is no lie in them, so he replies, “Even after everything?”

“I meant what I said, Aziraphale,” says Crowley. Aziraphale lifts his hand from Crowley’s chest, and the momentum builds once more. To put it simply, one thing is rapidly leading to another, and suddenly—

Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he kissed someone. As Crowley presses his lips to Aziraphale’s, he wonders why he ever gave this up. A cynical voice in the back of his head pipes up with something to the effect of “besides the obvious?” Aziraphale pushes that back down and focuses on Crowley’s mouth. 

And good God, the things that mouth could do. All at once, memories come flooding back to him of the things he and Crowley had done in their youth. He had forgotten just how much sex they’d had back then. A chuckle works its way up from his chest, and Crowley pulls away, looking confused. 

“Ah— sorry,” says Aziraphale, feeling his face flush ever so slightly more than it already has.

“W— what were you…?” asks Crowley, one eyebrow raised. 

“I was just, ah, remembering how much we used to, er— b— back when we were at uni,” stammers Aziraphale, looking away

Crowley chuckles and pulls Aziraphale back toward him, practically purring into his ear, “It doesn’t have to stay a memory, angel.”

Aziraphale sucks in a shallow breath. “It’s been a long time since anyone has called me that.”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been with me,” replies Crowley, edging a hand from where it grips Aziraphale’s collar down, down, down his torso and toward his groin. 

At this moment, two things happen. 

The first thing is that Crowley is palming Aziraphale’s semi-hard cock. 

The second thing, of which Aziraphale is quickly becoming aware, is that no matter how good this feels, no matter how badly he’s wanted this for _so long_ , Aziraphale cannot do a single thing to stop the sheer panic bubbling up from deep in the pit of his stomach. His breathing quickens and his heart rate skyrockets as the terror sets in, accompanied by the realization that he is about to have the mother of all panic attacks, right here in Crowley’s office.

Crowley misguidedly judges Aziraphale’s physical reactions to be the result of pleasure, and, naturally, appears very taken aback when Aziraphale jerks his whole body away and stands with his hands on his knees, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s efforts are in vain. The harder he tries to block the panic attack from taking over, the more impossible it becomes. His chest tightens and his vision begins to blur at the edges, and he knows that he’s really in for it this time. As Aziraphale begins to succumb to his impending blackout, the cynical voice in the back of his head returns to beat him down even further:

How fucking stupid of him to think he could ever be at peace with this. God, what was he thinking? He’s so entrenched in this cycle of trauma—how foolish to hope that he could ever escape it—

And that’s the last thought he has before he shuts down entirely. All at once, everything in his brain and his heart and his stomach overloads, and all he can do is run. Some sort of excuse tumbles out of his mouth as he stumbles toward the door and lets himself out. Nothing exists in his mind except the idea that he needs to get away from here as fast as he can.

Doing his best not to appear as if he is fleeing something or someone, Aziraphale speedwalks down the hallway and out of the building, abandoning his belongings in his office. He isn’t sure where he is going, but his feet seem to have things under control. He walks uncharacteristically quickly, with his head down and hands jammed into his pockets. The route he walks is a familiar one—so familiar that he doesn’t give it a second thought until he looks up, and is greeted by the emotionless stone face of his church towering over him. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale feels much smaller than usual. He feels watched; eyes seem to bore into him from all around, and he is struck by the unshakeable sense that all the saints and angels in heaven have turned toward him to cast a judgemental look down upon him. Aziraphale’s heart jumps into his throat, and he hurries inside. before he has the chance to venture any further down that particular rabbit hole.

Once Aziraphale has seated himself in a pew, his mind gives way fully to his panic attack. He is no longer aware of his surroundings, and the only thing he can think of is the sheer gravity of his sin. He _knew_ better than that, and yet he still let himself be tempted. For a moment, he rages internally against Father Charles for ever letting him think that his actions were even remotely excusable. He ricochets between this and angrily scolding himself for submitting to the cosmically arbitrary reign of the Catholic church over his actions—his mind is at war with itself, caught in the duplicity of futile attempts to justify his behavior and the crushing knowledge that he is most certainly doomed to burn in Hell. Any progress he may have made of late is but fuel to the flame.

Aziraphale tries to pray, but by now he has become so overcome by panic that his prayers devolve into mostly-silent sobs. Time passes without a care about Aziraphale and his struggles, and eventually, he is brought back to consciousness by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

——

Crowley stands in his office for a moment, trying to process what just happened. His office door is still standing open, and he can hear Aziraphale’s retreating footsteps as he flees. After a moment, the realization that he just watched Aziraphale succumb to the beginning of a panic attack dawns on him, and he bolts from his office, all but slamming the door shut behind him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s dealt with anything like this, but there’s no way he can let Aziraphale run off in the middle of a flashback, especially when this one was actually his fault. A simple misunderstanding, to be sure, but his fault nonetheless. 

By the time Crowley makes it out of the building, he realizes he has no idea where to begin. He must have been too slow on the uptake, because Aziraphale is nowhere in sight. Frustrated, Crowley tries to throw himself into Aziraphale’s mindset, or, at least, his best approximation of it. He plays back through the events of the last five minutes in his head, and realizes exactly what went wrong, and when. 

The kiss. It must be like new to him again, after all these years. 

The desire. Crowley had felt it, and he also felt that Aziraphale did, too. Neither of them were being subtle. 

The touch. When he palmed Aziraphale’s cock, it wasn’t exactly what he would have described as flaccid.

And there it is. At that moment, Aziraphale’s breath had hitched in his throat, and Crowley realizes with a pang that _that_ was the source of his panic.

God, how could he have been so stupid? Immediately, Crowley takes off running, realizing that Aziraphale is almost surely going to his place of worship. If Crowley knows Aziraphale at all, and he does, then he knows that his knee-jerk reaction to this will be to try and pray himself into oblivion.

Crowley yanks out his phone. Aziraphale is still at the top of his recent calls page, so he calls him. 

No answer. Of course. 

His next instinct is to open up Google maps and find every Catholic church nearby. He picks the closest one to where he is, and runs. 

Naturally, Aziraphale is not there, and Crowley looks like an absolute fool standing in the doorway of the sanctuary, panting like a dog. He is not as in shape as he used to be. He makes his exit, opens the map once more, and realizes the church he has gone to is in the opposite direction of Aziraphale’s flat. Swearing under his breath, he scans the screen for a church closer to where Aziraphale lives, and upon finding one, takes off running once more. 

As Crowley passes back through campus, he suddenly remembers that he is the proud owner of a car, so he takes a short detour to save himself a lot of leg pain tomorrow. The Bentley is a much more efficient mode of travel than running, and Crowley makes it to the church in just a few minutes. “Parallel parking” is, at best, a very loose term for how Crowley leaves the car as he leaps out, slamming the door just a _little_ too hard. He apologizes to the Bentley and gently pats its hood. 

Once Crowley feels that he has made proper restitution to his poor car, he looks up at the facade of the church he’s about to enter. This one is much more intimidating than the last, and distinctly more gothic-inspired in its architecture. He hurries inside before he can psych himself out too much about it.

Crowley breathes a sigh of relief when he spots Aziraphale’s anachronistic clothes in a pew about halfway up the sanctuary. As he draws nearer, he can see Aziraphale rocking back and forth ever so slightly, with his head bowed and his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles are white. Crowley does his best not to walk particularly quietly, for fear of startling Aziraphale and making everything worse. 

The sanctuary is all but empty, and Crowley’s boots echo off the stone walls. He hopes that this announces his presence effectively, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. Standing a safe distance from him, Crowley quietly clears his throat. Aziraphale’s head snaps up, a look of surprise mingled with fear written plainly across his face.

“Crowley— I didn’t expect you to—”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley interrupts, practically diving into the pew next to him. When he realizes how far his words carry in the stone sanctuary, he lowers his voice. “Are you alright?”

Rather than offering a response, Aziraphale scrambles away from Crowley, flinching at his touch.

“Aziraphale— please, just tell me you’re alright,” says Crowley, desperate to offer some semblance of comfort, or at the very least, to apologize.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Crowley,” Aziraphale replies bitterly. He looks away, but allows Crowley to move closer to him. 

“Angel, I’m so sorry.”

“P— please don’t call me that,” says Aziraphale. “Not anymore.”

Crowley isn’t sure what he should say. He was so busy running up and down the city looking for Aziraphale, that he never gave even a moment of thought toward what he would do when he found him.

Aziraphale breaks the silence before Crowley can come up with something appropriate to the situation. “I don’t think I’m as ready for this as I wanted to be.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Aziraphale.”

There is another silence, but it is Crowley’s turn to break it. “Please, just— tell me how to fix this,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from breaking. He is sure as _hell_ not going to cry right now.

“ _This_ isn’t what’s broken, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, gesturing loosely at the space between them. “It’s me. There’s nothing you can do about that. This isn’t your fault, and it’s not on you to fix it.” An uncharacteristic hardness has crept into his voice. It strikes Crowley deep in his gut, and it hurts a great deal more than it has any right to.

“I think I need to go,” Aziraphale continues, standing abruptly. “Yes, it’s time to leave.” He seems to be talking to himself at this point, but he turns to Crowley once more. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.” As he turns to leave, Crowley sees that his eyes are red from crying. Aziraphale has never been good at hiding his emotions—especially not from Crowley—and the look in his eyes speaks plainly of the decades of misery he’s been through. The repression, the self-loathing, the agonizing road to self-acceptance that he has only just begun to travel: all of it has has culminated in this moment. Crowley can plainly see the crushing realization that Aziraphale was not ready to move forward down that road reflected clearly in the slump of his shoulders as he retreats solemnly up the aisle of sanctuary. Usually Aziraphale carries himself with a great deal of confidence, and for Crowley to see his usual composure crumble so completely is like a punch to the gut.

Crowley sits dumbfounded in the pew, watching Aziraphale leave. Once the doors fall shut behind him, Crowley turns to face forward and drops his head into his hands, gripping his hair just hard enough to hurt. A cascade of emotions washes over him, and for some time, he sits just as he is, trying to sort them out. 

First: sadness. Well, maybe not quite _sadness_ , in the traditional sense of the word. Grief? Misery? Crowley isn’t quite sure how to identify this one. All he knows is that it fills an aching hollow in his chest, and it feels uncomfortably similar to his memories of the day Aziraphale dropped off a box of his things on his porch. 

Second: anger. Not at Aziraphale this time, but rather at himself, for bringing so much senseless pain upon Aziraphale. Even though he had plainly said it wasn’t Crowley’s fault, Crowley replays what happened in his office, combing through his memory to find what he did wrong. He can’t help but try to fault every move he made, but nothing makes him feel better. It’s never that simple.

Finally: a hope that stings almost as much as the mingling hopelessness that accompanies it. Against his better judgement, Crowley desperately wants to believe that things will be okay—that he will finally get closure for a broken heart that never quite healed. But despite this, he knows how it goes. Things don’t always have a happy ending, and the soft, pining part of his heart has become encased in a jaded exterior, and the events of the day have only hardened it further. 

Once his thoughts are in order, Crowley takes a deep breath and lifts his head. He was so focused on Aziraphale when he first arrived that he never took a moment to observe his surroundings.

Having grown up relatively agnostically, Crowley isn’t sure if he’s ever so much as been inside a Catholic church before. He is not well versed in religious imagery, but he gets the gist of most of it. A tastefully ornate altar sits at the front of the center aisle, and the walls are lined with tall, narrow stained glass windows depicting what Crowley can only assume to be stories from the Bible. 

As Crowley looks around the sanctuary, he finds himself wondering how Aziraphale can stand to be here. All the imagery and decoration seem to press down on him rooting him to where he sits. The eyes of the figures that surround him on the walls and in the windows bore into him, and he feels as if millennia of judgement are being passed upon him all at once. 

How on _earth_ can Aziraphale handle this? Nothing about this seems even _remotely_ appealing to Crowley, and he knows from past experience that Aziraphale is even more susceptible to the hammer of righteous judgement than he is. 

And then again, he supposes, that’s why they’re in this mess in the first place.

As Crowley’s train of thought rounds that particular corner, his anger surges back, this time directed at the entirety of the Catholic Church. He knows full well that his anger is pointless, and that only frustrates him more. What could the wrath of one crabby pansexual violinist really do against the ages-old institution of the Catholic Church, anyway? He sighs bitterly. 

The further down this rabbit hole that Crowley travels, the more frustrated he becomes, and he finally gets a taste of all the years of self-hating repression, pent up anger, and the general feeling of being perpetually backed into a corner, terrified to even put words to how he feels. Tears sting at Crowley’s eyes, and he does everything he can to hold them back. Sure, everyone has that feeling when they’re young, confused, and still working out that they’re queer. Hell, he also felt all of those things to some degree when he was young. But this? This is some next level shit. 

Crowley looks around once more, desperate to ease his mind. From an objective standpoint, the sanctuary is quite beautiful, and were Crowley in a better state of mind, he might actually be fond of it. 

As Crowley scans the sanctuary, the figure of someone kneeling in prayer in another pew catches his eye. He thinks for a moment, before lurching forward onto the kneeler in front of him. Aziraphale must find some sort of comfort in coming here to pray, so why shouldn’t he give it a shot?

Crowley quickly finds that kneeling like this is supremely uncomfortable, so he returns to his pew. He tries bowing his head and clasping his hands, imitating the traditional prayer pose, but he doesn’t have much luck with that either. He gives up on bowing his head, looking up at the cross hanging on the wall at the head of the sanctuary. 

_Hello?_

Prayer isn’t something with which Crowley is at all familiar.

_Is anyone there?_

How does Aziraphale manage this? Nothing seems quite right. 

_Maybe it’s a bit presumptuous of me to try and pray._

Is he supposed to feel something?

_It’s not that I don’t believe in you._

Hear something, maybe?

_I mean, I don’t_ not _believe in you._

Silence.

_But— look, this isn’t about me. It doesn’t matter if I believe in you, or worship you, or any of that. Or, at least, I don’t think it does. I didn’t come here to challenge my beliefs._

Maybe he’s doing something wrong.

_I came here because of him._

And then again, does it matter if he’s not doing it right?

_You know who I’m talking about._

Is it enough for him to be trying at all?

_He believes in you. He believes in this church. I don’t understand why, but he does._

_Maybe it brings him some sort of comfort._

_Anyway._

_He’s really going through it right now._

_To say the least._

_He doesn’t deserve this. He deserves so much better than what this church has given him._

Crowley can feel anger boiling up in his chest once more, and he shoves it down as best he can.

_Isn’t there something you can do about this?_

Why hasn’t he heard anything back?

_Are you really going to just abandon him to do this on his own?_

Is this supposed to be so one-sided?

_Answer me!_

Just as Crowley reaches his breaking point, a gentle voice interrupts his prayers.

“Are you alright there?”

Crowley’s head jerks to the side, and his gaze meets that of a young priest with a kind smile in his eyes.

“I suppose so,” he answers. 

“You seemed to be having a bit of trouble,” the priest continues. “May I sit?”

Crowley scoots over enough for him to sit down. “Praying isn’t my strong suit. Not really religious.”

”Like all things, prayer takes practice,” says the priest. “But I think what matters more is that you’re trying.”

Crowley frowns, but says nothing. 

“What brings you here today?”

“I, ah— it’s kind of a long story.”

The priest raises an eyebrow. “I’ve got plenty of time, if you’re willing to talk about it.”

Crowley hesitates for a moment. This is Aziraphale’s priest. How much should he say? How much does the priest already know? The last thing Crowley wants is to put Aziraphale in harm’s way. 

The priest must sense his trepidation, because he adds, “Everything is confidential, of course. There’s no reason I shouldn’t offer you the same courtesy as I do my parishioners.” 

“Wait, is this— is this confession?” Crowley asks, perplexed. This is not even remotely how he had expected his afternoon to go.

The priest chuckles. “No, people who aren’t Catholic can’t confess or receive penance,” he says. “But there’s no rule preventing you from telling me what’s on your mind.”

Well, if Aziraphale trusts him, Crowley sees no reason not to. Not to mention, Crowley has always thought himself to be a good judge of character, and this priest seems genuine. 

“Well, it’s— there’s this, er— there’s someone I care about,” Crowley begins. “And he— this person is having a lot of, well— er, trouble. With accepting the truth of a situation he’s in.” 

The priest remains silent, so Crowley forges on. 

“Or at least— I think he is. I don’t know where he is with it. I just know he’s— he’s in a lot of pain, and some of it is my fault— well, not directly.” Crowley isn’t sure how to explain the situation fully without giving away who he’s talking about. He glances over at the priest, but he’s facing forward, deliberately not making eye contact. 

“I don’t really think there’s much you can do about it,” says Crowley, following the priest’s line of sight up to the cross at the front of the sanctuary. 

“Perhaps not,” replies the priest. “At least not without knowing a little more about the situation.”

There are a few moments of silence, as Crowley and the priest gaze at the cross together. 

“Although,” says the priest, breaking the silence. “I think I may have an idea of what’s going on, actually.” He looks over, and when their eyes meet, Crowley is possessed by an unshakable sense that the priest knows a great deal more about the situation than he originally let on. Perhaps he saw Crowley sitting with Aziraphale?

“It may take him a while to be ready to face the difficult parts of his situation,” the priest continues. “There may not be much you can do to help. But when he comes through it, if you want to be there for him—if you’re _meant_ to be there for him, you will be.”

“And what if he never comes through it?” Crowley asks.

“In my experience, the Almighty tends not to leave loose ends untied.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

The priest smiles. “It’s not my beliefs being called into question here.”

Crowley thinks about this for a moment before saying, “Thank you, er— Father.”

“Please,” says the priest, “call me Charles.” He extends a hand for Crowley to shake.

“Thank you, Charles.”

“And you are?”

“Crowley.”

“Pleased to meet you, Crowley,” says Father Charles, standing up. “I’m afraid I have to go. Administrative work waits for no priest.”

Charles turns to leave, but pauses a few steps away, seeming to remember something. He turns back to Crowley.

“He loves you, Crowley. He may not be able to show it yet, but he does,” he says. 

This time, Crowley is sure that Charles knows exactly who they have been talking about this whole time. He does not get a chance to ask him about it, however, because Charles turns and walks away, leaving Crowley alone in a pew with his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, long time no see. apologies for the wait, I know it was a lot longer than last time. Good news is I've taken my meds every day for the last 20 days, according to my habit tracking app, so as long as I keep that up, I should be able to write more consistently. It turns out forgetting my medicine several times a week kinda fucks me over. Who knew? (me. I knew. I just suck at remembering my meds)
> 
> anyway, this chapter was a long time coming. It was a hard one to write, and the fact that I've been having issues with motivation (but what's new, really) didn't help. But I'm glad to be back, and I'm glad to be writing again. I really hope you all like this chapter. also sorry. I know it's kinda a punch to the gut this time around. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and even more thanks to those who comment every time I post <3 (don't think I haven't noticed - I recognize your usernames by now) you all mean the world to me and your kind words are fuel to the dumpster fire that is my ego. I love you all!!


	10. Trailing Wings of Melted Wax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from I Fell Away by Brave Saint Saturn! These chapter titles are really starting to show my favorite bands lmao. 
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Many thanks to the ever-supportive Alisa for helping me edit and helping keep me motivated. 
> 
> Content warning for graphically described Sex Adjacent Things in this chapter, as well as verbal homophobia (no physical violence).

At long last, the fall semester draws to a close, and Aziraphale lets out a sigh of relief that is shared by students and professors alike, all across St. Basil’s campus. He has not seen Crowley since their encounter at his church, and as far as he is concerned, it’s better that way. Crowley is far too potent of a temptation for him, and, frankly, that’s the last thing he needs right now. He’s still up to his chest in grappling with the fact that he actually said it. 

_Gay._

He’s given it a name now, and he can’t hide from it anymore. His feelings on this front are still mixed—he wants to be happy for himself, but any celebration in which he might have indulged is sullied by the lingering Catholic guilt that has followed him his entire life. 

That guilt. Where would he be without it?

Aziraphale does his best to banish these thoughts from his mind, with minimal success. He would very much like to be able to enjoy the holidays without being constantly anxious, but, alas, his brain has other plans for him. 

His main concern is his mother. Now that he’s begun to face the fact that he’s been gay all along, he feels a sort of obligation to tell his mother, despite knowing very well that doing so is an objectively terrible idea. Just as he thinks he has come to a decision one way or the other, he second guesses himself. Over and over he reconsiders it and then re-reconsiders it and then re-re-reconsiders it, and so on and so forth. This is how he occupies himself for the entirety of the hour-and-a-half train ride to his mother’s house on Christmas Eve. 

By the time Aziraphale steps out onto the lone platform in his mother’s village, he has more or less come to the decision that he should, in fact, tell his mother about his recent revelation. However much he may dread the moment he actually does it, he knows he won’t be able to sleep properly until he does. 

This proves to be true over the next two days. Despite the fact that Aziraphale has always gotten along better with his mother than he did with his father, nothing can stop the dread that looms over him throughout both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. In spite of this, he manages to have just about as nice of a time as one can when spending Christmas alone with one’s aging Catholic mother. 

As Christmas Day draws to a close, Aziraphale begins to have more and more trouble beating back his anxiety. He does not sleep well that night, and channels a bit of his restlessness into packing his belongings, just in case things go poorly the next morning. 

The majority of his energy, however, is spent laying awake in his bed, his mind buzzing. He desperately wants to find a way to make himself believe that what happened in Crowley’s office was not his fault, but he can’t. He wanted it. He wanted it so _badly_ , and he pushed himself too far, and it backfired. He rehashes the situation over and over, thinking through each moment in as great of detail as he can manage, until his subconscious takes over. 

What if it hadn’t gone south? What if he hadn’t had a panic attack? What would have happened?

Aziraphale more or less knows the answer to that. There’s no way he can pretend he didn’t know where it was going. 

With that, Aziraphale’s mind wanders just a _little_ too far, and as he relives Crowley tracing his fingers down his chest, he begins to notice a gentle throbbing somewhere south of the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

Oh no. God, no. This is _not_ the time. He’s in his _mother’s house_ , thinking _gay thoughts_. And now it’s too late.

Aziraphale does his best to ignore it, to no avail. He tries to go to sleep, but as the throbbing increases, he falls into a cycle: the harder he gets, the more he thinks about all the things that could have happened that afternoon, which, in turn, only makes his erection worse, ad infinitum.

After fifteen or so minutes of failing miserably to think his erection away, Aziraphale’s hand begins to stray. He hasn’t been this hard since… God only knows when. His cock makes a conspicuous tent in his boxer briefs that he can no longer ignore. All it takes is one perilously simple, fluid motion to free it, and his hand wraps around the base, and—

Good _Lord_ , how is he already dripping with precum? What is he, nineteen?

As Aziraphale lies there, a brief warning flashes through his head: as soon as he begins to move his hand, this will go from dangerous to a mortal sin. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. He should stop. 

He doesn’t. 

Almost without thinking, Aziraphale begins to move his hand and God, it feels good. He speeds up, squeezes tighter, and jams the back of his left hand into his mouth to stifle a moan. 

Aziraphale looks down, and his imagination crafts a woefully realistic fantasy of Crowley’s mouth where his hand is right now. 

His thumb—Crowley’s tongue, perhaps?—glides over the head of his cock, eliciting another light gasp, and it’s all over for him. His strokes get faster, faster, faster—until after a few minutes, they become erratic and he briefly forgets how to see and hear in favor of simply feeling the intensity of his orgasm, and there’s nothing he can do to stop a moan from escaping his lips, still muffled by his hand. 

_Heavens above_ , he thinks. _That didn’t take long._ Despite being alone, he is a bit embarrassed by his performance. He looks down at his shirt and sighs. Ruined. At least he’s going home tomorrow. 

Aziraphale sits up, pulls off his shirt, and walks to the bathroom to run cold water over the stains forming on it. As he stands at the sink, mindlessly scrubbing at his shirt, he is hit with a pang of guilt. He thinks about how badly he wants to see in real life what he saw in his mind’s eye as he lay in his bed. He has already given a name to this thing— _gay_ —and now he’s consecrated it, as it were.

Although, he supposes, it’s not really the first time. His brow furrows, and he hangs his shirt over the side of the bathtub to dry. He walks back to his room and looks at the bed. Though his father has long since passed on to his reward and his mother has moved into a smaller house, his bed has remained—a constant reminder of yet another time he tried to touch the sun.

As Aziraphale pulls on a clean shirt and gets back in bed, he faces the uncomfortable truth that incidents like this are piling up. He has already begun to come to terms with the fact that he’s gay, but some part of him clings desperately to the foolish hope that he’s not. It’s getting harder and harder to entertain the portion of his mind that’s still in denial. 

Eventually, Aziraphale drifts into sleep, and for the first time in quite a while, he sleeps restfully. He is in a surprisingly good mood when he wakes up, but it is short lived; once the grogginess begins to fade, he remembers what he has promised himself he would do today.

The last thing Aziraphale wants to do right now is look his mother in the eye and tell her he’s gay. He glances over at the clock beside his bed, which informs him that it is around 8:30. His train doesn’t leave until 11, so there’s still plenty of time for things to go to shit. He rolls over and resolved to try and sleep until at least 9:30, because it’s Christmas break, dammit, and he deserves some extra sleep; but he has no luck. He makes it until almost 8:50 before he gets bored of trying to sleep and throws off his blankets. 

As he looks around the room, he sighs and curses himself for packing his things the previous night. He is quickly running out of ways to stall facing his mother.

Just as Aziraphale is beginning to accept that he needs to just go downstairs and get it over with, he remembers he needs to take a shower—an excellent way to waste time.

He manages to stall until 9:15 with his shower, and emerges into his mother’s kitchen shortly thereafter. His hands are shaking, and he thanks the heavens that he has learned to mask his anxiety so effectively. Otherwise, he’d be a goner. 

Aziraphale and his mother make inconsequential small talk for a few minutes, but eventually they fall into a comfortable silence. He enjoys this as well as he can, mentally rehearsing what he’s going to say. His anxiety builds and builds, until it becomes insurmountable and he blurts:

“Do you remember when I brought a friend home for Christmas?”

Aziraphale’s mother freezes, and he can tell she knows what’s coming. “I do,” she says.

“Er— I’m sure you remember what happened,” says Aziraphale, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“How could I forget?” replies his mother, a hint of iciness on the edge of her voice.

“Well, er— I’m— ah—”

“Spit it out, Aziraphale.”

With that, a switch flips on Aziraphale’s head. He has gone too far to backtrack, and he knows for sure that there’s no plausible way this could have a positive outcome. “Nothing has changed, mum. I’m gay.” 

Aziraphale’s brain shifts to emergency systems only, and his mother’s words are like water washing over sand as the tide comes in. 

“Sweetheart, I know,” she says. “I’ve always known.”

“Oh,” begins Aziraphale. “Er— I—”

“Did you think you were hiding it from me?” 

“I— I don’t know,” says Aziraphale.

Mrs. Church raises an eyebrow, but says nothing for the time being. Aziraphale is awestruck. For one brief, but beautiful moment, he thinks he might just have made it through relatively unscathed. Obviously there are a myriad of ways in which that could have gone better, but given the circumstances, he can live with the outcome he got. He stays quiet, hoping to ride the coattails of this moment for as long as he can. 

Naturally, Mrs. Church hasn’t finished. 

“Your father would be disappointed in you.”

Aziraphale can practically feel his heart sinking in his chest. Eye contact with his mother becomes too overwhelming, and he looks down at his hands.

Mrs. Church leans back in her seat. “That said, I suppose I can’t stop you from doing whatever it is you’ve decided to do.”

Another silence. Aziraphale knows his mother is waiting for him to say something, but he can’t even bring himself to form a sentence in his head, much less say one out loud. There is nothing in his mind but radio static; it obscures his thoughts and his feelings, and it takes all his energy just to focus on his mother’s words. 

“But I can’t stop you from going to Hell, either,” she continues.

There is nothing in the world that Aziraphale wants more than to be able to defend himself in this moment, but he can’t. She’s right. He knows she’s right. He was a fool to think that he ever had any hope of escaping damnation.

“I think it would be best if you left for the train station now,” says Mrs. Church, standing up from the table. “Wouldn’t want to risk being late.” She sets about washing dishes, and says nothing more. 

Aziraphale looks at the oven clock. Just after 9:30. His train doesn’t depart until 11, and the train station is a mere 10 minute walk from his mother’s house. 

But he’d better not risk being late. 

Aziraphale goes back upstairs. This time, he thanks himself for having already packed. He would rather not tarry here if he can avoid it. He gathers his belongings, and makes his way to the front door. He is about to let himself out, but then he pauses, one hand on the doorknob, and glances behind him. 

“Merry Christmas, mum,” he calls. 

He is answered with nothing but silence, and he isn’t sure why he expected anything more. 

——

All things considered, Crowley has a pretty pleasant Christmas. He’s never been particularly fond of the holiday himself, and he generally spends it alone. This year is no different. He doesn’t upset him—that’s how it’s always been, and he’s content to spend his break at home, alone with his violin. He always treats himself to a particularly nice bottle of scotch around this time of the year as well—his one tribute to the holiday season. 

Crowley does not hear from Aziraphale at all over the course of winter break. He isn’t concerned about this; he knows Aziraphale will need some space to recover from their last meeting, and he is sure Aziraphale has plenty going on during this time of the year, what with him being Catholic and all that.

Despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding their encounter at Aziraphale’s church, Crowley has hope for his and Aziraphale’s relationship. He still can’t shake the subconscious guilt surrounding what happened, but he’s spent enough time mulling it over to have processed on a conscious level that it really wasn’t his fault. Crowley is sure that as long as he and Aziraphale take it slowly, they can start over and build something lovely between them. 

...ugh. Crowley has had more thoughts and feelings of this nature in the last five months than he had in the entire decade preceding his employment at St. Basil. He wants to be disgusted by it, and on some level, he is. But mostly, he can’t get rid of that obnoxious giddy feeling that marks the beginning of something exciting, and frankly, it’s getting on his nerves. He tries as hard as he can to accommodate for it, but he’s getting tired.

But never mind that. Somehow, Crowley makes it through the holiday break, doing the best he can to make space for this obnoxious schoolboy crush of which he has become the unfortunate host. 

The night before the first day of classes, Crowley finds himself unreasonably anxious. He is not generally inclined to this sort of thing, and it throws him off more than he is willing to admit. At least he knows why it’s happening, he supposes. Not that knowing makes any difference. If anything, it makes it worse. 

Early the next morning, Crowley walks into the music building and, as luck would have it, the first person he sees is Aziraphale. His heart jumps into his throat, but he opens his mouth to greet him nonetheless.

Just as Crowley is about to make an attempt at a cheery greeting, Aziraphale’s eyes meet his, and, for the first time in a long time, Crowley cannot immediately surmise Aziraphale’s emotions. The look he gives Crowley seems to be one of mild surprise, but as Crowley looks at him, the expression melts into one of panic and fear. Aziraphale diverts his eyes and rushes by him and Crowley whips around as he passes. Before Crowley can even form a sentence, Aziraphale is halfway up the stairs. Crowley stands for a moment, staring into the stairwell through the glass wall, dumbfounded.

Despite the foreboding of their first interaction since they spoke at Aziraphale’s church, Crowley makes it through the first day of classes unscathed. In fact, it even goes rather well. By now, he has convinced himself that Aziraphale was just too anxious to interact with him this morning, and that he must still be recovering from everything that happened before break.

Crowley is just beginning to toy with the idea of leaving for the day when he hears the muffled but distinct sound of Aziraphale playing the piano across the hall. A twinge of hope shoots through Crowley’s chest, and he uncases his violin. He pauses for a moment, poised to play, thinking that perhaps he should just leave well enough alone. Nonetheless, he proceeds, reaching across the hall with a simple melody—a wordless olive branch. Music is easier than speaking, especially when it comes to painful topics; Crowley knows this, and a soft, uncharacteristic optimism arises in him—hope that this will be the balm that begins the mending of their relationship once again. 

Aziraphale’s playing stops momentarily. For a split second, Crowley fears that he won’t respond at all, but at last, a slow response makes its way to Crowley’s ears. The warmth it brings is short-lived, however; as Crowley listens, Aziraphale’s playing falters and comes to a stop. He hears Aziraphale try to bring it back to life, but to no avail. Moments later, Crowley hears the distinct sound of an office door opening and then closing. He glances out the small window in his door just in time to see Aziraphale’s flyaway hair pass by at a speedwalk, and his heart sinks. The resemblance this has to what happened the first time Crowley echoed Aziraphale’s playing stings like a needle digging deeper and deeper into his chest. 

——

As Aziraphale rounds the corner away from his office, he hears another office door quickly open and shut, and he knows instinctively that Crowley is coming after him. He speeds up. The last thing he needs right now is to face Crowley. The weeks leading up to the first day of class have been nothing short of torture—he hasn’t been able to go a single hour without thinking about his mother’s words, which hasn’t done anything good for his paranoia, which hasn’t done anything good for his sleep quality, which hasn’t done anything good for his overall mood, and so on and so forth. 

By the time the start of the spring semester had finally rolled around, Aziraphale had been desperate for something to distract him from his obsession. His only moments of peace had come when he was working on last-minute planning, and the hustle and bustle of getting ready the day before had provided a refreshing change of pace from staring blankly at the same page in his book for hours on end every day. 

Naturally, however, luck had other plans for him this morning. What a cruel trick of fate it had been to run into Crowley first thing in the morning. Aziraphale’s already tired mind more or less short-circuited, and he had bolted.

Typical. There’s no thrill quite like running from one’s problems, which is exactly what he’s doing right now, and for the second time in a day, no less. Well, he supposes, it’s no different than what he’s been doing for the last two decades. But he’d rather not think about that right now. It’s probably better to just focus on the more pressing matter at hand: running away from facing Crowley.

He can’t leave the building yet; he left all his things in his office again—he _really_ needs to stop doing that—and there is more work to be done. What he _can_ do, however, is go hide in the bathroom in the basement until Crowley leaves him alone. 

The basement of the music building at St. Basil is, to nearly everyone who uses the building, a maze. No one _quite_ knows how to get wherever they mean to go, but if they wander around enough, they tend to make it there eventually. It took Aziraphale three full years to learn the layout of the basement when he started teaching at St. Basil, but by now, he has at least learned where the bathrooms are. They’re over near some unidentifiable administrative offices that Aziraphale isn’t totally sure he’s ever _actually_ seen anyone use. 

Aziraphale rounds the last corner and quickly shuts himself in one of the bathrooms. These are single-stall bathrooms far away from most of the activity in the building, and are therefore excellent for panic attacks, when he can feel them coming on far enough in advance to actually make it there in time. 

As it turns out, they’re also great for hiding from attractive violinists who have only been teaching at this university for one semester, and therefore don’t know their way around the basement.

The nondescript tile of the floor welcomes Aziraphale, and he sits in his favorite spot, just to the side of the toilet paper dispenser. He waits tensely for several minutes, just to make sure that Crowley isn’t going to suddenly show up at the door. There’s no way he could possibly face Crowley right now without having a complete breakdown.

After a moment, Aziraphale relaxes, but only physically. Seeing Crowley again has interrupted the few precious hours he has been able to spend _not_ thinking about his mother’s words, or the fact that he is most certainly doomed to rot in Hell for his sins. Despite the decisiveness of the doctrine he was raised to uphold, he is fairly certain that nothing, not even confession, can possibly cleanse him of his sins. He thinks back to his train of thought the night before his unfortunate conversation with Mrs. Church. Even if all of the things he’s done are not sins after all, he supposes, it’s probably just easier to stay away from them, if they’re going to make him feel like this. It’s what he’s been doing for most of his life, after all. He can’t think of a single reason to upset the status quo. 

As he sits alone, dissociating on the dirty bathroom floor, Aziraphale draws his legs up in front of him and wraps his arms around them. He’s dug himself into one hell of a hole with this whole situation, and he can’t see a way out. He can’t take back the things he’s said and done, and he knows deep in his heart that his mother is right. This has to stop now. Aziraphale resolves to cut off his relationship with Crowley. Gay or not, he won’t allow himself to do something that could endanger his immortal soul. From here on out it’s just damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao sorry folks it turns out the holidays are fuckin busy, especially when you're young and married and have like 35000 different places to be and things to do. so i've been really busy. not to mention super depressed? idk what that's about lmao. probably just stress from the holidays mixed with how often i forget to eat and then fall into a whole hanger-fueled spiral where all i can think about is how i'm wasting my music degree and other fun and validating things like that.
> 
> ANYWAY
> 
> i love you all, and thank you so much for reading and for your kind comments. hopefully in the new year we'll see character development wherein i post a chapter more than once a month lmao. but maybe not. maybe i'm just like this. anyway you're all perfect and you've never done anything wrong in your lives. hope you enjoyed the pain from this chapter <3


	11. You Still Bear My Signature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s title comes from How to Be Yours by Christ Renzema!! Listen to the song, it’s actually quite relevant to the chapter as a whole this time. Also it’s rly pretty. 
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely friend and beta Alisa; without her encouragement this fic would probably have been abandoned.

In the days following the start of classes, Crowley makes no further attempts to speak to Aziraphale, conceding that he must still need space. There’s been a lot for him to process, and though it’s been several weeks since everything happened, Crowley is well acquainted with how slowly Aziraphale tends to work through his problems. Not to mention, the start of a new semester is stressful for everyone, students and teachers alike. Crowley reminds himself of these things each time Aziraphale avoids his gaze when they pass in the hall, and manages to keep his impatience at bay for a little while. 

As time passes, however, he finds that it becomes more and more difficult to ignore the mounting antsiness inside his chest. Crowley is a patient man, but everyone has their limits, and by the end of the second week of classes, he feels that he is nearing his. They still haven’t spoken about what happened between them before the holiday break, and sooner or later he’s going to need closure. In all honesty, though, he’s settled for less in the past. 

Since their first day back after break, Aziraphale appears to have relaxed somewhat, and things have, for the most part, reverted to how they were at the beginning of the fall term—a comfortable silence, if not a bit cold. From this, Crowley surmises that it _might_ be safe to try to speak to Aziraphale again. 

Finally, on a gloomy Thursday afternoon in mid-January, Crowley stands outside Aziraphale’s open office door and steels himself, just out of Aziraphale’s line of sight. With an uncharacteristic buzzing anxiety rooted deep in his gut, he knocks gently on the doorframe and steps into Aziraphale’s office.

——

Aziraphale has been having a perfectly average day so far, thank you very much. He has been looking forward to a delightfully uneventful evening, but his hopes turn to dust the moment Crowley steps into his office. He may be marginally more capable of holding himself together when he passes Crowley in the halls by now, but that doesn’t mean he’s particularly interested in actually _speaking_ to him. Frankly, he’s not even sure if he’s capable of holding a conversation with him, given how long it’s been since they last spoke.

That doesn’t matter, however. Crowley is here, and there’s no way Aziraphale can get out of this without talking to him. Crowley opens his mouth, as if to speak, but closes it without saying anything. Aziraphale arches an eyebrow, realizing that Crowley charged right into this without stopping to think about what exactly he wanted to say. He opens his mouth again, but Aziraphale beats him to the punch.

“Close the door.” It comes out a bit coldly, but he doesn’t care.

Crowley closes the door, and Aziraphale gestures to the chair on the other side of his desk and waits for Crowley to sit. Thus far, Aziraphale has managed to hold himself together excellently, and he doesn’t plan to lose control. Not this time. He’s beyond tired of losing control of his anxiety in situations like this, so he shuts it all off and sits across from Crowley, utterly emotionless.

“I take it you have something to say to me?” says Aziraphale. Things are still coming out coldly, and he still doesn’t care.

“I just—” Crowley begins, looking down at his hands. “I just want to know what happened. I thought things were alright be— between us.” He falters for a moment.

Aziraphale says nothing, not out of rudeness, but rather, because he isn’t sure how to respond.

“I know we— things sort of— things went south last time we talked,” Crowley continues. “But I thought— I hoped it was just a bump in the road.” Crowley is gaining momentum, and words tumble out of his mouth, tangling in each other and mixing themselves up. He looks up. “We can go as slowly as you need to. That doesn’t matter to me, Aziraphale. I just want—”

“That’s not the problem,” says Aziraphale, looking away from Crowley’s gaze.

“Then what is it?” says Crowley. The desperation pulling at the edges of his voice threatens to break through Aziraphale’s barrier and cause his entire facade to come crashing down, but he manages to keep it together.

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to stammer. “It’s— I just—” he pauses, resigning himself to what he knows he has to do. “I can’t do this anymore, Crowley.”

“Can’t— can’t do what?”

Aziraphale sighs, gesturing loosely to the air between them. “This. I can’t be what you want me to be.” He pauses. “It’s suffocating me.”

Aziraphale falls silent, and as he watches Crowley process what he said, he sees an array of emotions pass through Crowley’s eyes—confusion gives way to understanding gives way to grief gives way to anger. Crowley’s brows furrow, and this time, when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is dripping with sarcastic vitriol.

“Of course. Of course, how could I have expected more out of you? How could I have expected that maybe, _just maybe_ , after _twenty years_ , you might have made enough progress to be able to just accept that you’re fucking ga—“

“That’s not the whole story!” Aziraphale practically yells, nearly knocking his chair over as he jumps up and turns to face away from Crowley. “You never know the whole story, Anthony!”

Crowley stands up as well, leaning over the desk on his hands. “Then tell me!” he replies. “Just tell me!”

“I— I can’t!”

“Why not?! _Everything_ would be easier if you would _just talk to me!”_

“Because _I don’t want to fucking talk about it!”_ yells Aziraphale. He is so close to losing control, but he won’t. Not in front of Crowley, anyway.

Crowley stands in silence, taken aback.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “Please leave,” he says, not turning around. His voice is shaking, and he stands as still as he can until he hears Crowley mutter under his breath:

“Fuck this.”

The door of his office opens and then slams shut, and there is silence once more. Aziraphale sinks to the floor behind his desk, and the wave of panic and guilt he has been so effectively holding at bay comes washing over him. Despite his best efforts, hyperventilation turns to sobbing, and it is almost half an hour before he can compose himself enough to stand up again.

——

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck _FUCK_. God _fucking_ damn this whole situation. He doesn’t deserve this. He never has. Fuck this, fuck Aziraphale, and most of all, _fuck_ the naive idealism that convinced him that pursuing him again was _ever_ a good idea. He should have listened to his gut back in September and stayed the fuck away from all of this. He should have known getting close to Aziraphale again would only come back and bite him in the ass.

And yet, here he is, fists clenched at his sides, his skin absolutely _crawling_. How foolish of him to think that he could do this without getting hurt again. He should have learned the first time.

Anger boils and bubbles just under his skin, mixing with guilt and grief and coursing through his veins with an intensity so volatile that he can feel himself shaking. Why does this hurt so badly? He feels like he’s right back in the thick of it, utterly naked and sprawled where he landed on Aziraphale’s bedroom floor that night so long ago. Is this how Aziraphale feels whenever he has a panic attack? Good God.

He has to leave. He has to leave _right now_. He doesn’t trust himself not to explode, and he needs to take this as far away from Aziraphale and his students and his workplace as he can.

Breathing hard, Crowley wrenches open his office door. He can barely process his surroundings, but he manages to get his belongings together well enough to get himself out of the building and into his car without dropping anything. The Bentley screeches out of its parking spot, and somehow he makes it home without totaling his car.

Once inside his flat, Crowley makes a beeline for his liquor cabinet. Normally, he prefers some measure of luxury when drinking, but today, he takes a swig straight from the bottle. He doesn’t care what it tastes like; he is painfully sober right now, and this is the fastest way to remedy that.

The alcohol does its job marvelously, especially considering he really hasn’t eaten much today, but he doesn’t feel any better. This doesn’t come as a surprise to him, but it doesn’t stop him from taking another swig, either.

Crowley sets the bottle down on his kitchen counter and paces restlessly through his apartment. His familiar walls are usually a comfort to him, but eventually they begin to feel suffocating. There isn’t enough here to distract him, and he’s only had a couple swallows of whisky thus far, so he assesses his level of intoxication and, concluding that he is fit to drive, grabs his keys.

Once he makes it onto the road, Crowley realizes he has absolutely no plan whatsoever for how best to distract himself. Naturally, then, his instinctive course of action is to go pick up some eager 20-something at a bar and give him the pounding of a lifetime. He isn’t sure why he thought this would make him feel any better than he thought the whisky would, but at least the drinking didn’t make him feel worse than he already did. He almost wishes he had never left home in the first place.

But once again, here he is, watching some twink disappear into his bathroom to clean himself up. This feeling of resignation seems to be a theme today. Crowley sighs.

The next morning, Crowley wakes up feeling just about as shitty as he did when he fell asleep. But duty calls, and he drags himself out of bed and all the way to St. Basil. He is relieved not to run into Aziraphale as he walks into the building, and as he walks up the stairs to his office, he runs through scenarios in his head, unsure how exactly he would react if he did happen to cross paths with Aziraphale right now, when everything is still so raw.

Much to his relief, Crowley makes it to his office safely. He does not see Aziraphale at all for the entire day, as a matter of fact, and he begins to wonder why. It’s not as if St. Basil has an overwhelmingly large school of music, and he usually at the very least catches a _glimpse_ of Aziraphale’s shock of fluffy white hair from the other end of the hallway, if nothing else.

That afternoon, just as Crowley is about to leave for the day, he passes by the room in which Aziraphale usually gives his lectures. On the door is a single sheet of white printer paper, which, upon closer inspection, reads:

_Prof. Church’s classes will be cancelled today (24 Jan). He kindly directs you to check your email for your assignment this weekend. —G. N._

Crowley frowns. He thinks back to the last time Aziraphale cancelled class. Or rather, didn’t show up. It seems he at least had the foresight to shoot Gabriel an email this time around.

Second offense or not, however, Crowley cannot help but worry. This is very unlike Aziraphale, and, like last time, he can’t help but feel some measure of guilt.

Naturally, this pisses him off. He’s really very predictable sometimes. He doesn’t want to feel bad about this—he knows full well he has no reason to—but feelings are notorious for doing whatever the hell they want, and Crowley finds himself on the losing side of this particular battle.

Crowley spends a not-unremarkable portion of the weekend flip-flopping unpredictably between anger and guilt. Often he feels both simultaneously, and these are the most frustrating times. On one hand, he knows he shouldn’t feel guilty. He may have approached Aziraphale first, but after all, sometimes it’s better to give up on someone who is hurting you so profoundly, even if it upsets that person. On the other hand, he does feel just a _little_ bad for how he handled the situation in the heat of the moment. Though, he thinks more than once, he probably still handled it better than Aziraphale. When this crosses his mind, he tries to remind himself that Aziraphale is bringing a lot more baggage to this than he is, and while that doesn’t excuse his behavior, it certainly has a lot to do with how testy he is in certain situations.

Once again plagued by relentless anxiety, Crowley spends a good deal of Monday morning snapping his head up whenever someone passes his office door, hoping it will be Aziraphale. More for his peace of mind than anything else, Crowley just wants to know that Aziraphale is alright.

At last, around twelve-thirty, he chances to pass Aziraphale in the hall on his way back from lunch. They meet eyes for a split second, and Crowley is struck by how dark the circles under Aziraphale’s eyes are. He looks like he hasn’t slept since, well, their conversation on Thursday. Crowley hasn’t seen him look that miserable in a long time, and it stings like a needle to the heart to see that look on his face once again. Crowley doesn’t want to feel for Aziraphale right now, but he decides that loving someone is different than deciding to leave them, so he lets just a little bit of the pain run its course through his chest.

Crowley becomes desensitized to this version of Aziraphale rather quickly, however. Over the course of the following week, he continues to look worse and worse—more miserable with each passing day. At first, he hides it from his students well enough, but Crowley sees it written across his face, plain as day. Each time, his heart wants to reach out and erase the pain from Aziraphale’s tired eyes, but each time, Crowley reminds himself that it’s not his problem anymore.

After a few days of forcing himself to remember that he doesn’t need to be concerned about Aziraphale’s wellbeing—Aziraphale is a big boy and can take care of himself now—Crowley no longer gives it a second thought when he passes Aziraphale in the hallway. Everything is finally how it should have stayed from the day he moved into his office.

——

The days following their fight are not kind to Aziraphale. At best, he is plagued by anxiety; at worst, he is a shaking mess on the floor of his flat. He spends many a sleepless night unable to shake the sense that he has made a horrible mistake, the fear that he has hurt Crowley deeply, and the nagging voice in the back of his head that reminds him that this is what he deserves.

People are starting to notice. Aziraphale has not missed the concerned looks on the faces of the people that he passes in the hallway, but even as the concerns of most arise, Crowley’s seem to diminish. Aziraphale isn’t sure why this hurts so badly.

Among those who are the most worried about Aziraphale’s wellbeing is Anathema. One afternoon, as Aziraphale sits in his office (in remarkably good spirits given his recent state of mind), a familiar face appears in his doorway. Aziraphale smiles and welcomes her in.

Anathema sits down. “You seem in better spirits today.”

“In comparison to…?” asks Aziraphale innocently, hoping to dupe her.

Anathema gives him a look over the thick black rims of her glasses.

Aziraphale sighs as the lighthearted smile slides off his face. “The last few days have been rough,” he says. “The last few weeks, if I’m being honest. But particularly the last few days.”

“I noticed,” replies Anathema. “And I think others have too.”

Aziraphale smiles guiltily. “I’ve never been very good at hiding things for long.”

Anathema laughs, but quickly falls serious once more. “Can I ask what happened?” she asks timidly, remembering the fallout from the last time she asked such a personal question.

Noticing her hesitation, Aziraphale says, “Don’t worry, I haven’t got the energy to blow up like last time. Plus, your phrasing is much more thought-out this time.”

Anathema chuckles and looks down. “I’m still sorry about that, by the way.”

“Water under the bridge,” says Aziraphale, waving his hand.

“So, er— what happened?” asks Anathema, emboldened somewhat by Aziraphale’s blessing.

Aziraphale sighs, and for a moment he considers telling the truth right off the bat. “Nothing in particular,” he says, deciding against it. “It’s just been rough lately.”

Anathema smirks. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Ironic, considering my past,” says Aziraphale dryly. 

“You’re also dodging the question.”

Aziraphale pauses for a moment and looks down at his hands. “I— ended things with Crowley,” he says, his voice soft and resigned.

“Were there… things? With Crowley?” Anathema holds her breath. She has asked this question before, and although she knows the answer, she is still nervous.

A silence.

“There could have been.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore.”

Another silence.

“Do you want there to be?” says Anathema quietly.

Aziraphale pauses. Does he?

Unsure. Or, perhaps more accurately, he knows full well what he wants. He’s just too afraid of what might happen if he were to let himself have it.

“I… I don’t think it matters what I want anymore,” says Aziraphale. “Not after that fight.”

Anathema frowns. “Don’t avoid the question.”

“That’s not something I can think about right now,” says Aziraphale curtly. “I don’t have the right to speculate.”

“Why not?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Bec— because of how I treated him.”

Anathema says nothing, but her brow furrows.

“I— I just— there’s so much I’ve—” Aziraphale stammers, and then stops abruptly.

“Start at the beginning,” says Anathema, her face softening as she realizes just how much history there must be between the two of them.

And so he does. Aziraphale tells Anathema everything, from the moment he and Crowley met, to the incident with Aziraphale’s father, to coming out to his mother, and right up to when Crowley slammed Aziraphale’s office door shut on Thursday afternoon.

Coming to a pause at last, Aziraphale takes a deep breath. This is the first time he’s told any one person the _whole_ story, all at once. He doesn’t necessarily feel any better, but his chest certainly feels lighter.

Anathema is silent for a moment as she processes. “I see what you mean when you say there’s so much,” she says.

Aziraphale chuckles quietly. “I’m sorry to lay it on you all at once like this,” he says. “I’m not looking for advice or sympathy, but it feels good to put it out in the open.”

“It’s not like I could really offer you any advice, even if you wanted me to,” replies Anathema with a friendly smirk.

“Fair enough.” Aziraphale smiles.

Aziraphale and Anathema chat for a while longer before Anathema decides it would be best not to continue avoiding her schoolwork any longer than she already has. She takes her leave, and Aziraphale is left alone once more. He mulls their conversation over in his mind for a few minutes, and then checks his watch.

4:10. He still has time.

Aziraphale packs up his things and heads downstairs. He sets out walking from the front doors of the music building, making a beeline for his church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy so sorry about disappearing for like 2 and a half months lmao. Remember how I said I was depressed? I got even MORE depressed and capped it all off with 2 weeks off my meds (not intentionally lmao). But now I’m back on them and I’m doing well and I’m BACK, babey!! 
> 
> I’m hoping to make more consistent updates from here on out, so wish me luck.
> 
> Also, sorry this chapter is so short and also so painful. Things will get better eventually I promise <3 there will be a happy ending, never fear. As always, thank you all for your kudos and your kind comments, and thank you especially for how patient you have always been with me. It really does mean a lot.


	12. Beneath the Weight of Years of Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes from "Between the Pavement and the Stars" by Five Iron Frenzy!
> 
> These are not my characters, though I wish they were. Credits to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and many thanks to them for helping me achieve a level of inspiration and motivation that I haven’t felt in almost a decade.
> 
> As always, many thanks to dear sweet Alisa and my poor husband for putting up with me.

Aziraphale’s church looms above him as he approaches. Why is he suddenly so nervous? This is usually a place of comfort for him. Never mind that, though, he thinks as he opens the door. He’s here for a reason, and he can’t risk psyching himself out by thinking too hard. 

Once inside, Aziraphale posts up in a pew about halfway down the aisle. The flutter of anxiety has not totally disappeared from his stomach, but he soothes himself and forces the anxiety out of his mind by praying the Rosary. Today is Monday—the Joyful Mysteries. He doesn’t feel particularly joyful today, but meditation almost always helps him relax. Once he has calmed down, he kneels on the cushion and continues praying. He comes to the close of the last Hail Mary and takes a deep breath.

Now that his mind is clear, Aziraphale can see the events of the last few weeks with much more clarity. He is struck with a pang of guilt as he realizes that he _probably_ didn’t need to cut things off with Crowley, but it’s too late now. The damage is done, and after their fight on Thursday, Crowley must be hurting. 

Aziraphale grimaces. He hates having to confess that he’s actually hurt someone, but it needs to happen. It’s why he rushed here, after all, and he’s running out of time. Glancing around, he spots Father Charles sitting quietly in a pew near the front of the sanctuary.

Another deep breath. Here goes. He’s done this a million times. It’s not hard.

Stand up. 

Walk over.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” says Fr. Charles. His friendly smile quickly fades to seriousness when he sees the special kind of hollowness in Aziraphale’s eyes that only comes from sleepless, nightmare-plagued nights. 

“Could we go somewhere ah— else?” asks Aziraphale. “I— I’m here to confess.”

“Of course,” says Fr. Charles, standing up. “My office?”

Azirapahle nods and follows him through a door off to the side of the sanctuary.

Charles closes the door of his office behind them and turns to face Aziraphale. “What’s on your mind?”

“Erm— a lot, honestly,” Aziraphale answers, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Standing on the brink of seeking forgiveness, he is suddenly overwhelmed by emotions, and he has to fight to keep his voice from breaking. 

“I know confession implies a confidentiality agreement, but if you could just say it aloud—” Aziraphale looks up at the ceiling, tears stinging his eyes. Terror beats in his chest, and it’s all he can do not to run far away and never come back.

“Aziraphale, everything you say in this room stays between you, me, and the Almighty,” says Fr. Charles. His face is serious, but his eyes are kind, and it soothes the fluttering in Aziraphale’s gut just enough that he can breathe again. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and reminds himself of how much lighter his heart felt after he spoke to Anathema. He knows this is a much more serious affair than that—and he is duly anxious—but he also knows that it will be infinitely more relieving to bare his heart to someone who can pass on the Almighty’s forgiveness. 

“Father, you remember I’m— wh— what I told you a while back,” begins Aziraphale.

Fr. Charles nods solemnly. “I do. And I’m honored that you felt safe telling me.”

Aziraphale gives Charles a look that falls somewhere in the no-man’s-land between a smile and a grimace.

“W— well, um— it’s just—” Aziraphale stammers and then falls silent.

“Take your time, Aziraphale,” says Fr. Charles. “We can sit, if you like.” He gestures toward the chairs on either side of his desk. 

Aziraphale nods and takes a seat. It has been a long time since he sat on this side of a desk, but the metaphorical barrier between himself and Fr. Charles makes this just a little bit easier. 

“Father, I— I think I’ve fallen in love,” blurts Aziraphale. “Er— with a man.” The words feel foreign in his mouth, and he can’t believe he really just _said_ it. And so nonchalantly, too.

Fr. Charles looks at him expectantly. “Is that, ah, your only concern?” he asks. “Because I don’t think that’s a sin.”

“I just— I can’t help but feel like it’s _wrong_ ,” says Aziraphale.

“I know it must be a hard adjustment for you to make,” says Fr. Charles. “And Catholic doctrine only makes it harder. But no matter what, I will always hold the belief that love has no penance.”

There is a pause. Aziraphale absorbs Fr. Charles’ words, but ultimately, the stress of the moment overwhelms him.

“I didn’t want it to be this way. Not this time,” says Aziraphale. “I tried so hard not to fall for him again.”

“Again?” asks Fr. Charles. 

Aziraphale pauses. “There was a time, when I was young, that we knew one another,” he replies, looking down. 

“What happened?”

And so, for the second time in a day, Aziraphale lays bare his soul to a friendly listener. It’s a little easier this time, because now he knows he can say it all without breaking down; but at the same time, it’s so much harder, now that the stakes are infinite. What if the Almighty just up and damns him right here and now? Aziraphale knows full well that’s not how it works, but logic has never stopped his anxiety.

When Aziraphale finishes, Fr. Charles takes a moment to think before saying, “You know, that explains a lot about the last few months, but I’m still not clear on why you’re here to confess it.”

“W— well, I think I’ve hurt him,” says Aziraphale. “We got into a bit of a fight. I keep pushing him away, even though I— I want to be with him, so badly— but I’m so afraid of— of what will happen if I let myself do that. And so I hurt him, and I’m afraid I’ve made him hate me.”

“Well then, that’s relatively simple, and you’ve done well to come tell me about it,” says Fr. Charles.

Aziraphale stares at him, puzzled.

“‘So if you are offering your gift at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.’”

_(A/N: Matthew 5: 23-24)_

Oh.

Of course.

“Once you’ve reconciled yourself to him, you will be reconciled in the eyes of the Almighty,” says Charles.

“Thank you, Father,” says Aziraphale.

Father Charles smiles. “Good luck.”

Aziraphale takes his leave, his mind racing. How on earth can he approach Crowley after what happened?

He spends the rest of the day fretting over his assigned penance, until he collapses into bed, expecting another night of tossing and turning, but instead, after four straight days of uneasy wakefulness, Aziraphale finally sleeps peacefully. 

——

Crowley, for his part, enjoys the next few days immensely. Not constantly worrying about Aziraphale’s wellbeing has lifted a great deal of stress off his shoulders. It’s not his problem anymore, and although it’s a bit of an adjustment, and he’s still nursing the open wound of a broken heart, he’s learning to like it. 

Later that week, while Crowley is working quietly in his office, there is a gentle knock at the door, and he looks up. 

Great. It’s Aziraphale. _Just_ what he needed today. And he looks like he wants something serious, too. Reluctantly, Crowley waves Aziraphale in and gestures to the chair across from his desk. Aziraphale sits.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks coldly.

“I just— I came to apologize.”

“For what?”

“F— for how I acted last week. And for pushing you away again. I really am sorry,” says Aziraphale. “Can you forgive me for that?”

“That— that’s not what I’m angry about!” says Crowley, visibly exasperated. 

“W— what?”

“It’s not just this! It’s never _just_ been anything! You, of all people, should understand that! Can’t you see? This is _how you work_. You wreak havoc in your relationships with your uncontrollable emotions, and then the _only_ thing you apologize for is the last thing you did! The straw that broke the camel’s back!” Crowley says. “That’s not going to cut it this time!”

“I— that’s never how I meant it—”

“That doesn’t change that that’s what happened!”

“I— wh—what will it take for you to forgive me?” asks Aziraphale. 

“I don’t know, Aziraphale!” yells Crowley, becoming more and more irritated. “This isn’t for your sake, this is for my sake. It’s my turn to take care of _myself_ for once, instead of pushing all the pain you’ve caused me aside so I can take care of _you!”_

Crowley pauses for a few seconds to breathe. Aziraphale opens his mouth, as if to respond, but Crowley cuts him off and continues. 

“I’ve put up with so much shit for you, and you can’t even return the favor by letting yourself be okay with your sexuality! You’re a _grown man _, Aziraphale, and you’re hurting more than just yourself with this! Every time you get too close to _just dealing with your trauma_ , you self-destruct, and _I_ keep getting caught in the crossfire!”__

____

____

“I can!” says Aziraphale desperately. “I can be okay with it!”

“Then say it.”

Aziraphale balks momentarily. He looks Crowley dead in the eye. “I’m gay.”

Crowley glares at him coldly. “I know, idiot.”

There is a pause, and Aziraphale feels as if he has been punched in the gut.

“Say something,” says Aziraphale. “Please, Crowley—”

Crowley sighs deeply and rubs his temples. “Please leave. I can’t be around you, because if I’m around you, I’ll just fall for you again,” he says. “And I’m not falling for your shit anymore. I’m not your emotional punching bag anymore, angel.”

Crowley turns away from Aziraphale. “This is over, Aziraphale. We’re done.”

There is a deep breath choked with a sob from behind him. It cuts deep like an ice pick, straight to his heart, but he will not give in. This is for his own good, and he has to stay strong.

Then comes the click of a door opening, and the click of it closing once more.

And finally, silence.

——

It’s over. It’s really over. And just when he was, after all this time, _actually_ getting closer to being semi-okay with it.

Aziraphale barely makes it into his flat before he loses control. He sinks into his bed, sobbing and hyperventilating. The pain has become physical; it feels as if someone has reached into his chest and put his heart in a chokehold, suffocating him.

It’s. Over. His ribcage feels as if it is being crushed under the weight of a heartbreak that wasn’t caused by his own self-destruction, but rather handed to him by someone he hurt.

Collateral. Is that all Crowley was to him? _God_ , how could he have treated him like that? How could he have been so stupid?

Aziraphale flops over onto his back, stunned temporarily by the realization that he has finally completely ruined his last hope for _any_ sort of friendly relationship with Crowley.

Is this how it felt for Crowley?

Both times?

God, he really is a piece of shit, isn’t he?

——

Over the weeks following their final falling out, Aziraphale and Crowley both learn that the only thing that can truly soothe a broken heart is time. They each learn this in their own way, and it isn’t pretty.

Crowley, for his part, holds on to his anger as long as he can manage, but eventually finds it too exhausting to continue. He has to see Aziraphale’s stupid face every day as they pass in the halls, and each time it’s like pressing on a bruise that just won’t fade. Eventually, he gives up and lets himself mourn the loss of something that _could_ have been wonderful. In another place, another time, perhaps it would have been.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, begins to understand the agony Crowley has experienced on his account. He also comes to understand that, in this case, the best apology is distance—letting the wounds heal on their own. The forced proximity of a shared workspace is bad enough; there’s no reason he should put Crowley through anything more painful than he already has. It hurts Aziraphale too, but this time, he finally realizes that his healing cannot and will not come from reconciling things with Crowley.

In short, it hurts them both, but time goes on.

Eventually, Aziraphale and Crowley put their lives back together. They slowly return to the uneasy coexistence that they had nearly perfected in the fall semester: they don’t talk, they don’t look at each other, and they certainly don’t play back and forth between their offices.

In time, they both come to miss their call and response, but neither will admit it.

They miss each other, too, but neither is willing to face the implications of that, and they both know that it would take a lot more than an apology to rebuild their relationship.

——

Sitting in his office one afternoon in early February, Crowley is pleasantly zoned out. For once, he has reached a state of relative empty-headedness, and he is rather enjoying the rare moment of quiet.

Crowley’s reverie is interrupted by a sharp knock at his door frame. He looks up, surprised to see Gabriel leaning in the doorway.

“Gabriel,” says Crowley, unsure how exactly he should greet him. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“Hope you don’t mind me stealing a bit of your time,” says Gabriel.

“Of course not,” Crowley replies, struck with the sense that Gabriel doesn’t actually care at all about wasting his time. He swivels his chair around to face the door.

Gabriel plunges right in. “I just dropped by to ask when you were planning to give your recital this year. Recital hall slots are filling up quickly.”

“My— ah— recital?” Crowley stammers.

“Yes, your recital,” says Gabriel, his confusion showing in his tone of voice. “Did— did no one tell you about that?”

Crowley frowns and shakes his head slowly.

Gabriel chuckles uncomfortably. “Well, it’s generally expected that academic faculty continue expanding their research and continue publishing work, and we maintain the same expectation of our instrumental instructors, in the form of continued repertoire building and yearly recitals.”

Crowley stares at him.

“Of course, due to the, ah, oversight, it would be perfectly acceptable for you to use existing repertoire this year, rather than putting together a whole new recital before the end of the term.”

Oh. That’s not so bad. He can do that. Definitely. Crowley nods.

“Don’t forget to reserve a slot at the recital hall,” says Gabriel, turning to leave.

“Ah— could I have a list of accompanists employed by the school?” Crowley asks. “I would ask my studio's accompanist, but she’s got her hands full with my students."

“Do you not have one of your own?” asks Gabriel.

“I did, back when I was touring,” replies Crowley, frowning. “She doesn’t live around here, though.”

“Where does she live?”

Boston.”

“Ah— well, I can email you a list of other studios’ accompanists to call, but I imagine they’re all just as swamped as your studio’s.”

“All of them?”

“It’ll be jury season before you know it, Crowley.” Gabriel smiles, and although Crowley can’t detect any trace of malice in his eyes, the look makes him uneasy nonetheless. “There are only so many accompanists to go around, and student performances do ultimately take priority.”

There is a brief silence.

“You could always ask Aziraphale,” Gabriel suggests. “You two seem to have a bit of— ah, chemistry.”

“That would be my last choice,” mutters Crowley.

“Do you have something against working with Aziraphale?” asks Gabriel, raising his eyebrow. The look on his face is cordial enough, but his gaze radiates an uncomfortable pressure, and Crowley can’t shake the feeling of being backed against a wall by a predator that is much more menacing than he looks at first glance. Crowley is fairly certain, unlikely as it is, that Gabriel knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

“Er— n— no, that’ll do just fine.”

“Excellent,” says Gabriel in a tone that’s just a little too chipper. He disappears from Crowley’s doorway without another word.

Dumbfounded, Crowley can only form one thought:

_You have got to be kidding me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may I offer you some gay angst in these troubling times? 
> 
> this chapter is brought to you by covid19
> 
> my work is closed til at least april 5 and i'm stuck inside I can't stop feeling like the world is ending but hey at least I got a chapter finished in 8 days eh? can't promise when the next one will be though because animal crossing comes out tonight and you can bet your sweet ass that i'm gonna be balls deep in that for the foreseeable future
> 
> anyway, overwhelming feelings of doom aside, I'm doing well and I'm glad to be getting this chapter posted so soon after the last one. makes me feel productive. gremlin brain happy.
> 
> I appreciate you all, you are all wonderful, and thank you so much for sticking with me and encouraging me <3


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